Circinus
by Vampire-Badger
Summary: Finding your soulmate is a lot easier when you have a literal compass printed on your skin pointing straight at them. Relationships, on the other hand... those are still hard. Modern AU, Reincarnation fic.
1. Past and Present 1

**Excerpts from the 2014 edition of The Book of Medical and Psychological Terminology-**

**Circinus: Marks caused by unusual blood flow patterns just under a person's skin. Typically located on the inside the left forearm, the markings form the shape of a compass and have been scientifically proven to point to the person's soulmate. Although circinus may fade to the point of being invisible to the naked eye, and some people may go decades without ever seeing it, the very definition of a Soulmate guarantees that someday the circinus will become visible and the two will, inevitably find one another. Although people all over the world now accept circinus as a part of their day to day lives, the truth is that until about a century ago, the markings did not exist. In the year 1900, the first circinus marked infants were born, and every person since that day has been born with these markings.**

**Soulmates: Two people destined to make a huge and lasting impact on the lives of the other. Although, as the term suggests, most soulmates do end up as lovers or spouses, a relationship with a soulmate is not always a romantic one. Many people are strongly influenced by parents, children, close friends, and even enemies, and any of these relationships can lead to two people becoming soulmates.**

-/-

_In the dream- The Dream- the dream he's had every single night of his life, faces surround him._

_Or one face, technically, repeated a thousand times, or more than a thousand times. An endless field of corpses surrounds Malik, all wearing the same face, all dead. Some are stabbed, others crushed, still others torn limb from limb- his mind's creativity in this matter never fails to horrify him, and as always, Malik finds himself squeezing his eyes closed, trying to block out that face. But there's no point, because while he can stop himself from seeing, he can still hear them. They're shouting, speaking words he almost recognizes, but can't quite hear over the sound of their screams._

_They should have been silent, drowned out by time and distance and death, but he can hear their screams, their death rattles, their voices rising into a chorus of blame so loud and angry he can't make out a single word._

_He wants to say something, but he doesn't know what to say, or even how. The horror of the scene, of the sea of bodies before him, robs Malik of his ability to speak, so that all he can do is turn and run. He knows there's no point to running, because he's tried it every single night of his life. No matter which way he goes, or how far he runs, he can never escape the press of bodies all wearing that same face._

_But he runs anyway, just like he does every time, because it's better than staying there and letting their dead eyes stare accusingly at him. And then he trips over something (a body, maybe? He doesn't want to look) and the ground comes up to meet him._

_The screams abruptly die away, and in the sudden silence, Malik can hear a single pair of footsteps walking closer. Shaking a little, he stands back up. Right in front of him is that same face, but whole and alive. Malik takes a hesitant step closer, not sure what to make of this new development. Every single night, for as long as he can remember, he's run through an endless field of corpses until- finally- he wakes to the real world feeling miserable and alone._

_He looks down at the face, and he knows, he knows he's seen it somewhere before, not in the dream but in real life, but he just can't remember… and then the boy (because really, he's no more than a boy) opens his mouth and asks- "Why?"_

_"Why..?" Malik doesn't have an answer, he doesn't even understand the question, but the boy is staring at him with an intensity that demands he say something._

_A blade rips through the boy's stomach, and he gasps in pain, looking down at the blood spreading from the wound like he just can't believe he's about to die. He sways for a second, then falls, and behind him is- someone else. A man, his face grim, surveys Malik over the boy's corpse, and Malik feels a sudden surge of brutal, inexplicable rage. Their eyes meet, and-_

-/-

The alarm clock beeps shrilly in his ear, startling Malik out of his nightmares and back to the real world. He groans and clambers out of bed to silence the alarm and start the day, muttering angrily to himself as he does so.

That dream…

He shouldn't still be bothered by it. Logically, reasonably, the same pile of corpses that he's had to suffer through every single night of his life shouldn't still have the power to scare him as much as it does. But then again, it's a dream. Logic and reason have very little power over nightmares.

He shakes his head, trying to clear his mind of the memories of the boy and the man that killed him.

He stumbles through his morning routine, tripping over boxes and digging through piles of clutter to find a clean set of clothes. He hates this, hates the hassle and chaos of relocating halfway across the country, but he's not fool enough to pass up a promotion like the one that took him from Chicago to New York. He's twenty five years old, three years out of college and working for one of the most prestigious architecture firms in the US. He's worked hard for everything he has, and he's not going to give it all up just to avoid the hassle of moving.

He makes a mental to do list as he dresses and scours the tiny apartment for something to eat. He needs to unpack, obviously, and go out for groceries at some point. He scratches absentmindedly at the inside of his left forearm, which has been bothering him since he got into the city. Maybe he should add some kind of anti-itch cream to the list.

He forces himself to stop scratching and puts on his shirt and suit jacket. He feels pretty confident of his ability to make a good first impression, but it helps that somehow he's managed to find a full set of clothes that's made it through the move looking more or less presentable.

"I hate moving," Malik mutters to himself, not for the first time, and heads out to face the city.

He's never been to New York before, but he has to admit… it's a little bit disappointing. The city, or at least the area his apartment's in, isn't that much different from Chicago. It's dark and crowded and loud. The ads on the billboards and on the sides of the busses are the same as in Chicago, urging him to go to Starbucks for his coffee, buy his breakfast from McDonalds, and use uNITE to find the other half of his circinus.

Malik snorts as he walks past this last advertisement. He's not the biggest fan of the whole concept. After all, he's doing just fine on his own, and if he never gets close enough to his soulmate for his circinus to be visible- well, all the better.

Absentmindedly, he scratches at his arm again.

-/-

Altair's never wanted to lead a normal life, which is lucky, because there was never much chance of that anyway. He was born different- stronger, harder, faster. As a kid, he could beat boys older and bigger than him in a fight without ever learning how. In school, when the other boys were chasing each other up trees and falling off the monkey bars, Altair would climb up buildings and jump off rooftops just to feel the wind as he fell.

He used to think it was because he was special, and it made him cocky and stupid. Looking back at it now, knowing what he's learned since then, Altair realizes he's lucky he didn't manage to get himself killed. Then again, arrogance has always been his downfall.

The dreams started around the same time as puberty did. Most people had to deal with growth spurts and hormones when they hit their teen years, but Altair had visions of another life. For a while, he tried to convince himself he was crazy, because believing the visions were true was somehow worse than believing he'd gone insane. He didn't want to believe that he was capable of doing the things that the Altair in his dreams could do.

He denies it for a long time, through all of high school and half his time as an undergrad. He denies it until the night he comes across a group of frat boys taking advantage of some half-conscious girl who's drunk out of her mind.

What he does to those boys gets him kicked out of school, but it also removes all doubt in his mind that the life he sees in his dreams is his, because there's nothing in this new life that would have caused him to react like that.

It should have been the worst time in his life, but it isn't. Once he's accepted the memories, who he is slides effortlessly into who he was, and the Altair that comes out is something between the two- he has the wisdom gained from nine decades as an assassin, paired with the optimism and energy of a man scarcely out of his teens.

Five years later, his life is still going well. After getting kicked out of one school, he takes some time off, thinks long and hard about what he wants to do with his life, and in the end there's only one thing he can come up with. He wants- no, he needs to go to Masyaf. He knows it's been centuries. He knows it must be deserted and nearly rubble by now.

He also knows it's where he's going to find answers.

So he applies at another school, earns a bachelor's degree double majoring in history and anthropology. Now he's working on a master's in archaeology at a decent school in New York City. There are better schools in other places, but this is the only school with a professor on staff trying to get funding for an expedition to Masyaf.

It's strange to realize that there are people in the world that see his home as the kind of dead, ancient place suitable for research, but then again, it works to Altair's advantage. He's never seen himself as much of a scholar, not in this life or the first one. The only reason he's trying so hard now is because there's a thousand years between now and the last time he left Masyaf. He needs to find out what happened in the years between, and he'll need to do that the same way as anyone else would- hard work and research.

But all that is still a long way off. Altair's been working on the professor doing the research, and he's pretty sure that if the expedition actually happens, he'll be going along. Probably to carry supplies and take down notes, but at least he'll be there. And for now, until something happens, he actually has some free time to spend.

It feels weird, and he's bored out of his mind. His schoolwork keeps him occupied most of the time, but he still spends a lot of time wishing that something interesting would happen. And just when his boredom level hits an all-time high, his circinus shows up for the first time.

He notices it over breakfast, and for several minutes he sits at his desk, a spoonful of cereal raised halfway to his mouth, staring without comprehension at the unfamiliar markings. He knows about circinus in general, obviously. He hasn't been blind and deaf for the past twenty five years. But he always sort of assumed that his… unusual circumstances would keep him from having a soulmate. At least one in this century.

The markings look like a compass- four main arrows pointing in the cardinal directions with a darker arrow pointed forward and slightly to the right. Curious, Altair moves his hand and watches the dark arrow move under his skin so that it's still pointed in the same direction. The markings are still faint, but there's no doubt that they're circinus.


	2. Past and Present 2

_For the second day in a row, Malik finds The Dream is changed. Again when he runs, he falls, and again the boy with the face he almost recognizes is waiting._

_Again he asks- "Why?" and the question hits Malik like a physical blow. He should know the answer, he knows he should, but-_

_Again the man appears, and as the boy falls to the floor- dead dead DEAD- Malik feels the same sense of irrational anger well up inside him. It's like a fire, burning him up inside, consuming feeling and thought and memory until all that's left is the rage-_

-/-

He wakes up on the floor next to his bed, body tense and hands balled into fists. The bed sheets are tangled around his legs like a mummy's wrappings, and his body is slick with sweat. The first time he tries to stand, he can't quite manage it and falls back down with a loud thump. So instead of trying again, he wedges himself into the corner between the wall and the bed, draws his legs up close to his chest, and waits for the anger to drain away.

It takes longer than he expects, and that scares him. He hates feeling like this, out of control of his own emotions and with no idea why. Even reminding himself that it's only a dream doesn't help, because there's something about it that feels almost real...

With a grunt, Malik heaves himself off the floor. If twenty five years of nightmares have taught him anything, it's that nothing he can do will make them go away. He'll learn to deal with the new ones, the way he first learned when he was a kid. They kept dragging him to doctors, shoving drugs down his throat, and in the end none of it did any good. He got it under control on his own.

At least- he thought he had it under control. The past couple days has him second guessing that.

He scratches at his arm and then rubs his face.

His train of thought is abruptly cut off, because when he brings his arms up he notices something there that shouldn't be there, that _hasn't _been until now. Almost numbly he stares at the markings, his brain refuses to believe what he's seeing. Circinus. _Now._

Malik growls out a curse and kicks at the wall. He's done perfectly well without some soulmate (he can barely manage to even think the word without feeling the anger again) messing up his life. He glares at the markings and snarls out- like the person, whoever it is, will be able to hear him- "I don't need you."

The words do nothing to make him feel any better- if anything, he feels slightly stupid for talking to himself- and he swears he can see the markings grow darker even as he watches. For a minute he stares at the markings, but they don't change again, apart from a slight twitching of the arrow. Malik watches it like the thing's a poisonous snake about to strike. He can't keep himself from imagining some stranger moving around on her (his?) daily business, and the thought makes him feel weirdly threatened. If it was just him, he could have spent the rest of his life ignoring the circinus.

But… if this person… his _soulmate_ (again, his stomach clenches at the word) decides to come looking for him, there's absolutely nothing he can do about it. There's a person out there, somewhere in New York City, with an arrow pointed straight at him. Any time they want, they can track Malik down and… and he has no idea what will happen then, and doesn't much want to find out.

-/-

"What's your problem?"

"What?" Altair looks up as one of his classmates flops onto the grass next to him. Edward isn't the kind of guy Altair would normally be friends with, but in this case he makes an exception. They met by complete accident in a grocery store on the first week of the fall semester, and Altair actually goes out of his way to make friends when the man shows up blue in his eagle vision- blue has always meant ally, and he's seen precious few of those in the twenty first century. The two of them get along well, but it's a couple months before Altair figures out why Edward Kenway, of all people, would show up blue. Then one night when the man's slightly drunk and highly talkative, he tells Altair that he has 'weird dreams', and that's the first time Altair realizes that maybe he's not the only one with more than one lifetime's worth of memories in his head. The only difference is that as far as he can tell, Edward hasn't remembered yet.

"I said, what's your problem?" Edward looks at him with genuine concern. "You're usually not this out of it."

"Aren't you supposed to be meeting your advisor this afternoon?" Altair asks.

"Oh, yea." Edward makes a face. "It's Tuesday, isn't it?"

"Yes it is." Altair shakes his head. He's always surprised by just how bad Edward is at remembering his own schedule. "I will be really surprised if you ever get your degree."

"Well, my parents are still surprised I finished my undergrad," Edward says. "I'm used to it."

Honestly, Altair can't blame them. "Why are you going for an archeology degree anyway?" he asks. "I always kind of wondered."

"Watched too much Indiana Jones as a kid," Edward says casually. "And yea, before you say anything, I know the real thing's nothing like the movies, but I have to do something with my life."

"I guess."

"Why? What about you?"

"I'm…" Altair frowns at the ground. It's a beautiful day, one of the first that actually feels like spring, but he can't bring himself out of his dark mood. "Looking for something."

"Okay, seriously," Edward frowns. "You're starting to creep me out now. What's wrong?"

Altair doesn't answer, just holds up his left arm so Edward can see the circinus there.

"Yea?" Edward says. "And?"

"It just showed up yesterday," Altair says.

"For the first time?" Edward asks. "You've never even met your soulmate?"

"No."

"That's- that's weird." Edward makes a face at him. "How old are you, like twenty four?"

"Twenty five," Altair says. Edward's reaction isn't making him feel any better, but it's not too unexpected. Circinus markings point a person to the man or woman that will have the most impact on their life. By the time they're twenty five, most people are set in their ways and not likely to change. That's why almost everyone meets their soulmate earlier than that- usually a lot earlier.

"Wow." Edward shakes his head. "Late bloomer."

"You know, for most of history, people didn't even have circinus," Altair grumbles. He hates the way Edward's staring at his arm, like he's a freak of nature for not going through this earlier.

"Yea, whatever." Edward rolls his eyes. "And if you'd been born a couple hundred years ago you wouldn't have this problem, but you weren't, and you do. So what are you going to do?"

"I don't know," Altair says, and that's the truth. He can't pretend he doesn't want to at least know who his soulmate is, but somehow looking would feel like a betrayal of all the people that were important in his first life, even if they have been dead nine hundred years. Maria, Malik, Darim and Sef-

"You're not even going look?" Edward asks. "What if she's hot?"

Altair snorts. "What if he's an ugly old man?"

Edward ignores him. "What if they find you first?" he asks. "That would be so much worse than if you just go and track them down yourself."

"Well…"

"You don't even have to talk to them," Edward says. "Just get close enough to see who it is and then… I don't know, make up your mind after that." He jumps to his feet. "Come on, I'll even go with you. We can do it now."

"Edward-"

"Come on," he urges again. "I want to know."

"It's not like they're _your _soulmate," Altair grumbles, but he lets Edward pull him off the ground anyway.

"So you're coming?" Edward grins.

"Only because I'm pretty sure you'd go looking on your own if I didn't," Altair says. "And there's no way you'd ever find them."

"Awesome," Edward says, and pulls at Altair's arm again, studying the circinus with bright intensity.

"You could maybe stop doing that," Altair says.

Edward completely ignores him. "It's really faint," he says.

"Well, it would have been too convenient if they were ten feet away," Altair points out.

"I guess," Edward says, undeterred. "Come on, let's go!"

**-/-**

**Edward showing up wasn't actually something I planned on, but I'm glad he's here. I have a hard time imaging the two of them being friends if they both have exactly the same personalities as their canon selves, so this is when I actually realized living in the 21st century would probably change them somewhat... anyway, that's something Altair's going to have to deal with a few chapters from now.**

**Speaking of 'a few chapters from now', I'm actually trying to write ahead of what I'm posting here (so I can go back and make edits before publishing anything, hopefully leading to less confusion when I realize that oops, character A needed to have a conversation with character B five chapters back that I forgot to put in). Anyway, what I'm basically realizing is that this is not going to be a very happy story (at least not anytime in the first dozen chapters or so). So, you know, fair warning and all that...**

**And of course, thanks for all the reviews/favs/follows. You guys are what keep me writing.**

**(...alright technically that's a lie. I mostly write so that I don't have to pay attention to my professors during lectures but shhh)**


	3. Past and Present 3

_"Why?"_

_This time, Malik's ready when the question comes. He still doesn't have an answer, but at least he's braced for it, and the question doesn't hurt to hear as much as it did the first couple of times. He still can't stop himself from shuddering when the man appears and stabs the boy to death, but when the anger comes roaring out to claim him, Malik refuses to give into it._

_It's hard to stay calm, but Malik forces himself not to go for the man's throat, the way he wants to. Instead, he asks, in an echo of the dead boy on the ground between them- "Why?"_

_The man doesn't answer for a long time, and Malik finds himself focusing on the little details to keep himself from giving into the rage that still threatens to overwhelm him the moment he lets his guard down. The man is... old. Actually 'ancient' is the word that comes to mind, and it's not so much his face, which is young, with a haughty quality that does nothing to calm Malik's temper. The ancient feeling comes from the way he carries himself -like a warrior fighting for some distant, long forgotten cause- and his clothes, which are robes, all white except for the red sash at his waist. There's a hood, but it's pushed down and Malik almost wishes it wasn't. He doesn't want to see the face._

_Then the man speaks, in a language that clearly isn't English but which Malik still somehow understands. "Nothing is true."_

_"What?"_

_"Everything is permitted."_

-/-

"Hey, Malik?"

A woman's voice startles him awake, and Malik realizes with some amount of panic that he's fallen asleep at his desk. Two days in and he's already sleeping on the job.

"It is Malik, right?" the voice continues, and he turns around to find a dark skinned woman smiling at him from the doorway.

"Yea. Sorry, I didn't mean-" Malik realizes he's scratching at his circinus, and stops.

"Don't worry about the sleeping." She says, waving a dismissive hand. "You just moved in, right? I'm sure you haven't been sleeping." She flashes him a smile that invites him to smile with her. Malik doesn't. "I know I've slept for less reason than that. Anyway, I came to see if you wanted to go out for lunch? Call it a welcome if you want- I know they probably just pointed you at an office and threw a ton of work your way."

Malik nods- his new boss has so far been anything but friendly. "Thanks," he says. "Sorry- I'm sure you told me your name but I've met a couple dozen people in the last two days."

"Aveline," she says. "Come on, I know this great place a few blocks away."

So Malik follows Aveline out of the building and down several busy city blocks. She turns out to possess a quick wit and a ready smile, and it's refreshingly easy to talk with her. They reach the restaurant, a Cajun place with food that's good but not exactly in line with Malik's tastes. They're halfway through the meal when Aveline frowns and points at his wrist. "Are you alright?"

He's been scratching it again, despite the fact that it really doesn't itch that much. It's like he thinks he can scratch the circinus away if he just works at it hard enough. The logical part of his brain points out that it would be extremely painful to actually scratch his skin off, and the problem still wouldn't go away because there's another person out there with a matching circinus that can still track him down. "I'm fine," he says, but then, because she looks genuinely concerned, and because he really needs to talk to somebody, Malik takes off his jacket and rolls up the sleeve of his shirt.

Aveline looks down at his arm and then back up at his face. "Your circinus?" she asks. "What about it?"

"I've never met my soulmate," Malik says, and jabs a finger at his arm. "This only showed up when I got into the city."

"So your soulmate is somewhere in New York," Aveline says. "That's good, isn't it?"

"I don't know," Malik says. "I've never been good with other people. I don't think I need a soulmate in my life, and I'm not sure what to do next."

"Huh." Aveline traces the arrow gently with her finger. "I grew up with my soulmate," she says. "We met when we were kids- Gerald's my best friend. I can't even imagine life without him."

"Well, everyone's different," Malik says, and pulls his arm away. "I'd rather just ignore them. Maybe they'll go away."

"I don't think so," Aveline says. "They're looking for you."

"What?" Malik glares down at the circinus, which does seem a little darker now than it had five minutes ago. "Oh no…"

"Listen," Aveline says. "If you don't want to meet them now we can leave. I mean, it won't keep the two of you apart forever, but…"

It will delay the inevitable. "Yes." Malik nods and stands up so fast he bangs his knee on the table. "Let's go."

So they pay and head out in silence. Malik keeps his sleeve rolled up, and he can't stop staring at the circinus as it quickly grows darker and- finally- black. He looks up, searching the crowded street for… he doesn't know what, exactly. He's standing on one corner of a crowded intersection in the middle of the lunch hour, and there have to be at least a hundred people around. Any one of them could be his soulmate. But only one of them is, and Malik knows who it is the moment he clasps eyes on him.

"No," he says, so quietly it's almost a whisper. He takes an unconscious step back and then, unable to stop himself, adds- "Why?"

It's like the world of his nightmares has invaded his waking life- the man from his dreams, the one who's been there the past few nights to stab the boy to death in front of him. The man looks different in the clear sunlight of early spring, and without the memory of his dreams in the forefront of his mind, Malik might have thought the man to be completely unremarkable.

He's dressed in a pair of shorts and a T-shirt with the logo of some university on it. He's carrying a dirty, beat up backpack that- like everything else he has on him- looks like it's seen better days. He could have been any one of the hundreds of broke twenty-somethings living in the city, but he's not.

The man's searching eyes lock onto Malik as he's stumbling backwards, and for a second Malik reads something like hesitation on the man's face. Then, all in a second, the confusion gives way to a flood of emotions that look out of place on a face Malik somehow knows shouldn't be that expressive. There's surprise first, then relief, and after that a genuine smile that abruptly vanishes as Malik feels his own face slip into a mask of anger.

"What's the matter?" Aveline asks. She reaches out to steady him but Malik, already angry and a little afraid, doesn't let her.

"I don't know," Malik says. And then, more firmly, like he's trying to convince himself- "I don't."

-/-

"Edward," Altair says softly as the walk sign flashes on. "Don't."

"What's the matter?" Edward asks. He glances down at Altair's circinus, which is so dark it's nearly black. "We're almost there! Don't you want to see whoever it is?"

"I already did," Altair says. He ignores the crowd of people moving around them, many muttering angrily as they pass.

"And?" Edward asks.

"And he doesn't want to see me," Altair says. He's pretty sure the look on Malik's face- panic and fear quickly giving way to anger- isn't one that he's ever going to forget. No matter how badly he wants to.

"How do you know?" Edward asks. "He could be-"

"Trust me," Altair says, a little more angrily than he means to. "I know him. He doesn't want to see me." Because the truth is, he's seen that anger on Malik's face once before, close to a thousand years ago now, right after Kadar died. At least that time Altair knew why Malik was angry. This time, he has no idea what he's done, and he feels bitterly disappointed. Until today, he's never even considered that anyone from his first life could show up in this one, and for a second when his eyes met Malik's he'd been relieved. Excited, even.

Not anymore. Any hope that he could have some connection to Masyaf in his new life abruptly vanishes, and Altair just feels disappointed.

"I thought you said your circinus has never showed up before?" Edward asks. "How could you know him if you've never been close enough to see your circinus?"

Altair shakes his head and starts to walk back the way they came. Edward has to half run to keep up, and a block away he grabs hold of Altair's arm and forces him to stop. "Wait!"

"Let go," Altair growls. He wrenches his arm free, but Edward moves so he's standing squarely in his way. "Move."

"Not until you tell me what is going on here," Edward says. "Seriously, you've got me worried. Who was that guy?"

Altair moves around Edward without answering, but he doesn't answer. Edward narrows his eyes and follows so closely that Altair almost trips over him more than once. It's clear that he doesn't intend to let Altair out of his sight until he gets some answers.

They're almost at Altair's apartment when he makes a snap decision. Maybe it will turn out to be the stupidest thing he's ever done, but Edward's clearly not going to go away until he hears the truth. Besides, he needs somebody to talk to, and on top of that, the tiny part of his brain that's still working logically wants answers too- he's suspected for months that Edward's on his second life, too, and this is his chance to find out if he's right.

"Alright," Altair says, and stops so abruptly that Edward nearly trips over him. "I'll tell you what's going on, but you're not going to believe it, and I'm not doing it in public."

"Okay, fine." Edward shrugs. "But now I'm really worried."

Altair grunts and leads the way into his tiny apartment- it's not much of a place, scarcely big enough for a mattress and a desk. A half open door reveals a bathroom that's barely as big as a typical closet.

"You don't have much here," Edward observes.

Altair shrugs. Apart from a few changes of clothes, neatly folded in the cardboard box next to the mattress that serves as his closet, and a collection of packaged foodstuffs lined up on top of his desk, he doesn't really need much. The most valuable thing he owns is a four year old laptop that holds all his schoolwork, as well as the research he's done on Masyaf. That never leaves his person.

"Not really," he agrees. Now that they're here, he doesn't really know where to start. So he lets Edward take the lead. "You have questions."

"I have a lot of questions." Edward crosses his arms, tries to look serious, but his expression is too eager for him to pull it off. "You said your circinus has never showed up before but you obviously knew that guy."

"Right," Altair says.

"So how does that make sense?" Edward asks. "If you'd ever got anywhere near him before this, you would have seen the circinus."

"I-"

"Did you meet him on the internet or something?" Edward doesn't give Altair a chance to speak. "I can see why that might be embarrassing, I mean some of those dating sites are-"

Altair has absolutely no intention of letting him finish that thought. "I met him a thousand years ago." The look on Edward's face as his jaw drops is satisfying and goes a long way toward improving Altair's mood. "Circinus didn't start showing up until 1900."

"A thousand years," Edward says.

"More or less," Altair says. "Twelfth century, technically."

Edward smiles, but there's an uncertain quality to the expression like he's not quite sure whether Altair's joking or just insane. "So you're a time traveler or something?"

"I don't know," Altair says. Honestly, he's more or less stopped trying to figure out how he got to this century or why. Maybe when he gets to Masyaf his answers will be there, but that doesn't help him now.

"How do you not know?" Edward demands.

Altair stares at him, waiting until Edward's calmed down a little before speaking again. "It started with dreams," he says at last, and watches Edward shift uncomfortably. "When I was a kid, they were just snatches. I'd remember a face, maybe part of a conversation, sometimes a place. Then I'd wake up like it was any other dream." He stares without blinking at Edward, who's growing visibly less comfortable with every word he hears. There's a part of Altair that hates doing this to a friend, and maybe in a couple hours that will be the part of him that wins out, and he'll regret what he's about to do. For now, though, he's hurting, he has no idea what to do next, and if he's honest with himself, he's angry with Malik for not wanting to see him. That's the part that keeps him talking.

"Then the dreams got more… specific. I'd dream about twelfth century Jerusalem and wake up convinced I'd really been there. I remembered my father's death, and then I'd wake up to see my family healthy and alive. It made me a little bit crazy in high school, actually. For a while they had me going to a therapist, but she didn't know what to with me. I'd get headaches, or wake up in the middle of the night, hyperventilating or-"

"Sleepwalking," Edward blurts. His eyes are wide, and Altair can imagine what he's thinking right now. He knows how he would have felt if he'd heard someone describing his exact symptoms, back before he knew what was going on with him. "Bleeding noses. These." He holds his hands up, palms out, so that Altair can see the thin, crescent shaped scars there. Some look years old, and others look extremely fresh, no more than a day or two old.

Altair holds his own hands up so Edward can see the matching marks there. He has less scars than Edward, and none so recent. But he's had his own share of mornings where he woke up with his hands clenched so tightly into fists that the nails have drawn blood. It's not fun, and looking at Edward's hands now, Altair starts to really regret forcing him to face this. On the other hand, he's going to keep questioning his own sanity, keep slicing his hands open until he gets past it.

"It's all real," Edward says. "I thought…" he trails off, lets out a long sigh. "I thought it was just me. I thought I was insane."

"I'm sorry," Altair says.

"Don't be." Edward does his best to smile, but it's a poor effort. "Knowing it's all true has to be better than thinking I'm crazy, right?"

Altair doesn't say anything, because he knows there are memories from his first life that _are _worse than thinking he's crazy, and the expression on Edward's face tells him he's reached the same conclusion. "Anything you want to talk about?"

"No!" Edward swallows, then goes on in a calmer voice. "Sorry. I mean-" his hands are shaking. "Not right now. I can't just deal with this-" he interrupts himself, shakes his head like he's trying to physically force the worst of the memories away. "Tell me about your soulmate," he says, and it's an obvious attempt to change the subject, but Altair decides to let it happen.

"His name's Malik," he says. "Or it was, anyway. I don't know if he still uses it." He tries to imagine Malik using another name, something that would fit in better in 21st century America, and his mind shies away from the idea. "We knew each other the first time around."

"Were you lovers?" Edward asks.

"What?" Altair frowns. "No, why?"

"Well…" Edward makes a complicated motion with his hands. "You know. Soulmates."

"It doesn't have to mean something romantic," Altair points out. "And our relationship was… complicated. I was stupid and got his brother killed."

"Ouch."

"But by the end we were..." Altair struggles to explain his complicated relationship with the man, but in the end he only mutters, "Friends, I guess."

He can see Edward deciding not to ask for the details. "So if you were friends, why didn't he want to see you?" he asks.

Altair shrugs. He remembers Malik's face on the street corner, looking like he'd just seen a ghost. A ghost, or… "Something out of a nightmare," Altair says quietly.

"What?" Edward frowns. "Did you say something?"

"He doesn't know me," Altair says. "He hasn't remembered yet." He runs a hand through his hair, absently noting that he needs to get it cut sometime soon. "He's having the same dreams, but he's even slower at putting it all together than you were."

"Wow, thanks," Edward mutters.

"So all he knows about me is... whatever he's having nightmares about," Altair goes on. "And I'm sure he has plenty of memories of me that would scare almost anyone away. His brother, his arm-"

"What happened to his arm?"

"He lost it because of me," says Altair.

"But you're not going to give up, are you?" Edward asks. "Because I really want to know how this turns out."

Giving up has never even entered his mind. "You are really interested in my soulmate," he says. "Is yours really boring or something?"

Edward shrugs. "We met like ten years ago but we've barely talked since then," he admits. "I mean, I'm sure there's some reason we're soulmates, but I haven't figured out what it is yet. I've barely even talked to Mary since-" he cuts himself off abruptly, and his face turns a weird color. "Actually, if the dreams are real, that suddenly makes a lot more sense."

"Someone from your first life?" Altair asks.

Edward nods. "We… are probably going to need to talk soon."

Altair snorts. "Here's to complicated soulmates," he says.

"And multiple lifetimes," Edward grumbles. "The world was so much easier this morning."


	4. Past and Present 4

_This dream is different. Right away, Malik can tell that this dream is more… real than the ones he's been suffering through for his whole life. Those dreams have always had a ridiculous, nightmare quality to them. A field of corpses all with the same face is something that could only happen in a dream. They're surreal, and even when he wakes with the images burned across his mind's eye, Malik can at least remind himself that none of it is real._

_But this dream is utterly, jarringly different. In his dreams, Malik is young, maybe twelve or thirteen years old. He can feel the hot summer sun, smell the sweat on his skin, taste the blood and dirt in his mouth as a fist slams into his face and he falls away from it and onto the hard ground._

_Malik springs back to his feet with an agility he has never in his life possessed, and hits back as hard as he can. He doesn't know why, only that the movement feels _right_, and so do the next several blows, until his opponent is crumpled on the ground in front of him, gasping for breath and bleeding from a fresh cut across his mouth. But only a little- Malik's angry, but he knows they'll both be in trouble if they injure each other too badly. _

_"Malik…" a tiny voice behind him says, and Malik glances behind him to see him- the boy from his dreams, the one that's been killed in a million different ways across a thousand nights of dreaming. His eye is black and his knee is bleeding, but he's alive, and years younger than the corpses Malik is used to seeing, maybe seven or eight years old. But he only shakes his head, still angry, and turns back to the boy on the ground in front of him._

_"Keep your hands off my brother," he says, in a voice that's too high and too young to be really intimidating. "If you go near Kadar again-"_

_"Let your brother fight his own battles," the boy says, and lashes out at Malik's legs so that he falls hard on his butt, and a second later the boy has his foot on Malik's chest, forcing him down._

_"Get off me!" Malik yells. From this point of view, he can see the boy's face clearly, and he's barely even surprised to see a younger version of the man that's showed up in his dreams the last couple nights, the man who's invaded his waking life, the one who is apparently his soulmate._

_"Nope." The boy grins in lazy triumph, and Malik feels his anger grow._

_"Altair!"_

_-/-_

With a monumental effort, Malik forces himself awake. He's panting like he's actually just been in a fight, and he has to touch his face to make sure it's not bleeding and bruised. There's no chance of him going back to sleep now, so he gets out of bed and wanders to the bathroom. The single light bulb casts a sickly yellow light, and Malik's face looks pale and ill as he examines it in the mirror over the sink.

"What's going on?" he demands of his reflection. "What's _wrong_ with you?"

But the mirror- unsurprisingly- offers no answers, and so Malik turns his attention to figuring out what that dream was about. If it even was a dream. At the time, it had seemed as real as anything Malik's experienced while awake. And, thinking back on it now, it seems like a realmemory, of something that's really happened. It's like someone went digging around in his head and just... edited in an extra memory. He thinks back on his early teenage years, and there are all the memories he expects- the awkwardness of middle school and puberty and his first disastrous try at asking a girl out- and then right in the middle is the new memory from his dream, like it's always been in his head, like it's actually his memory and not some made up product of a mind he's starting to fear might actually be insane.

He decides he doesn't want to think about it, and looks around for something to distract himself with, and right on cue, notices that his circinus is dark against his skin. It's as dark as it was yesterday when he first saw his soulmate (Altair, the voice in the back of his mind whispers, but he ignores it because that's a name he heard in his dream and even if it really is the man's name, he doesn't want to know _how he knew_).

So that means- what? That the man is following him? That he's somewhere just outside the apartment or- God forbid- even somewhere inside the building? Malik shivers a little and curses. It's half past six in the morning, and already he can't imagine his day getting any worse than it already is.

-/-

Altair loiters near Malik's apartment for most of the night. It's a stupid thing to do and he knows it, but he can't stop himself. He keeps comparing the man in his memories to the man from yesterday, but it's a difficult task without any knowledge of this new Malik. Altair wants to know everything about him- who he is and what he does and why he does it. What he sees in his nightmares and what he hopes for in the future.

At a little after sunrise, Altair's phone rings. He thinks about ignoring it, but then sees it's Edward calling and doesn't. "Kind of early for you to be awake," he says, instead of hello. Edward is decidedly not a morning person.

"Well it's not like I was going to sleep last night anyway," Edward complains. "Not after what you told me yesterday." Altair sighs and tries to ignore the creeping feeling of guilt working its way through his mind. "I went by your place and you weren't there."

"I'm outside Malik's apartment," Altair says.

"Outside," Edward repeats. "So you haven't talked yet."

"No."

There's silence on the phone, apart from a slight crackle of static, then Edward says, "That's a little bit creepy. How long have you been there?"

"Not long," Altair lies. "I-" he looks down at the circinus on his arm. "I needed to get out and think."

Edward snorts. "You're obviously not thinking very well," he says. "Your friend's going to see his circinus and know you're there. What are you going to do when he files a restraining order on you?"

Altair opens his mouth to argue that Malik wouldn't do that, then closes it again because honestly there were times in their first life when he probably would have if they'd been invented yet. There's no reason this Malik wouldn't, especially if he doesn't know who Altair is. "Alright," he says instead. "I'm headed back to my apartment."

"I'll be here," Edward says. "I think we need to talk."

He hangs up, leaving Altair alone with his thoughts. For just a second, he thinks about staying anyway. Right now, all he wants in the world is for everything to be like it used to be. The memories of his first life feel stronger now than they ever have before, and Altair feels unexpectedly nostalgic, and desperate for anything familiar.

But the only familiar thing around is Malik, and he doesn't want anything to do with Altair.

So he walks home instead, where he finds Edward waiting in his tiny room. More specifically, Edward's curled up on his bed, apparently asleep. Altair hesitates in the doorway, not exactly sure whether to be upset that the man broke into his apartment, or amused to see him sleeping like a baby.

Edward stirs and opens his eyes, then sits up and makes a face. "Sorry," he says. "I told you I didn't sleep last night."

Altair shrugs. "Still having nightmares?"

"No, actually." Edward grins. "Normal dreams for the first time in my life."

"So you're okay with this?"

"I said I'm not having nightmares," says Edward. "Not that I'm okay. It's been, like, twelve hours since you flipped my life upside down. Give me a couple days to figure it out." He hesitates, apparently remembering something. "Maybe a week."

"Alright." Altair shrugs and decides to let the breaking and entering slide for now. "You said we need to talk?"

"Yea." Edward frowns, and his eyes grow suddenly serious. The expression looks out of place on his usually carefree face. "How did you do it?"

"Do... what?"

"So-" Edward jumps off the bed so he's on the same level as Altair. "I've been thinking a lot since yesterday. It's weird, you know? I spent years and years pretending all this was just bad dreams. Now that I know it's real, it's like I have all these memories that don't quite fit in my brain right and I keep remembering things, and it's like- that's not my memory, but then it is-"

"I know," Altair interrupts, because Edward's nervous rambling is hard to follow. "You get used to the memories."

Edward waves him away. "Actually that part's kind of cool," he says.

"You're the weirdest guy I've ever met."

"How do you deal with the people that are in both your lives?" Edward asks. "I keep remembering people from before, and then I realize they're in this life too, but they don't remember and I do. What do I say when I talk to them? How do I deal with that?"

"Oh." Altair sighs heavily. "Honestly, Malik is the first person from… last time that I've actually met here."

Edward makes a face. "And you're obviously handling that so well."

Altair doesn't argue, because he spent all of last night standing outside Malik's apartment. Instead he shrugs. "Let me know if you figure it out," he says.

Edward laughs, and the conversation moves on to the most obvious topic- who they used to be. Altair has to admit it's a relief to be able to share his memories of Masyaf with someone that won't think he's insane, and Edward can barely keep his own stories from pouring out. After a while, Altair sits back and lets Edward steer the conversation. Mostly, this is because Edward has all his memories back, but he hasn't had the chance to actually process most of them yet. It's funny to see him start telling a story, then look surprised when he finds out the ending.

Finally, Edward checks the time on his phone and makes a face. "I have to go," he says. "I'm meeting my advisor in half an hour and she was pretty clear that if I forget to go again I won't be able to register for classes next semester."

"Well she has been trying to meet with you for about a month," Altair points out.

"I'm bad with scheduling."

"Obviously," Altair says, and the two of them walk out of the apartment together- Altair has a standing policy of spending as little time as possible in his cramped, smelly apartment, and he has work he can do on campus anyway. They're about halfway there when a brigade of ambulances goes screaming by. It's not exactly an unusual sight in the city, and normally Altair would have barely spared them a glance.

This time, though, he happens to be glancing downwards, and he sees his circinus turn dark as the ambulances draw near, and the arrow swing around to follow as they speed past. Edward looks over at him when Altair stops moving, and the two of them stare at the mark as it slowly fades to a lighter color.

"I have to go," Altair says, and takes off running before Edward can say a word.


	5. Past and Present 5

_"Does it still hurt?"_

_Malik shifts slightly in his chair and tries to ignore the voice. It's vaguely familiar, in the way that everything in his dreams is vaguely familiar. He knows the voice, and hearing it now brings a flood of images and memories into his mind, too brief and too distant to catch hold of before it fades away._

_The man the voice belongs to doesn't take kindly to being ignored, and Malik hears footsteps cross the room and stop in front of him. He doesn't look up, though, because he has work to do and-_

_It's the silence that eventually gets to him, and Malik looks up, snapping out, "What do you want?"_

_The man there- once Malik sees his face, he has to wonder why he didn't see it coming. It's the same man from his earlier dreams, the one that killed the boy- Kadar. And it's the same man he saw on the street corner in New York, the kid with the beat up backpack who is apparently his soulmate._

_"Altair," he hears himself say, and he remembers as he says it that he's heard the name in another dream. "What are you doing here? I thought you were busy." He gestures pointedly at the pile of work in front of him. "I certainly am."_

_"You're upset," Altair says. "I can come back later." He turns to go, and Malik feels unexpectedly guilty for his earlier tone. But must be the dream, because he desperately hopes that Altair will lust eave._

_"I'm just busy," Malik says, feeling the words slip out of his mouth without consulting his brain. For the first time, he truly realizes how little control he has over his own body in these dreams, and feels a cold jolt of terror wash over him._

_"Oh," Altair says, and hesitates. "I can wait…"_

_Yes, Malik silently urges him, leave. Please leave. But he feels himself sigh and shake his head. "No, Altair," he says. "You came here to say something, so say it."_

_"Does it still hurt?" Altair blurts, and Malik watches in horrified fascination as his gaze wanders downward, to the space where his left arm should be. Instead, there's only an empty sleeve pinned up to keep it out of the way._

_"Yes," Malik says. "Not all the time, but it doesn't go away." He locks eyes with Altair. "What's this about? Why the sudden concern?"_

_"You're my friend." Altair's tone is defensive. "You've been short tempered and angry lately. I was worried…"_

_His voice, along with the rest of the room, fades as Malik starts to freak out. The dream is fading, losing control on his mind. Now that he knows his arm is missing, he's painfully aware of its absence. It's a weirdly claustrophobic feeling, like being caught in a small space and knowing he can't get out. With his arm suddenly gone, he feels a desperate need to move it, and he feels phantom fingers twitch as panic takes him over-_

_-/-_

He knows right away when he wakes up that something's wrong. The claustrophobic feeling of his dream hasn't gone away, and when he finally works up the courage to actually look, he's not even surprised to see that even though he's awake, his arm is still gone.

After that, other details start to filter into his brain. He's in a hospital room, dressed in a powder blue hospital gown, and his arm (the right arm, the one he still has) is hooked up to an IV. Malik knows he's only noticing all these things because he doesn't want to think about his _arm _being _missing_, the same as in his dream...

Later. He'll deal with it later.

He looks around the room again, hoping there's something there that will hold his attention. The ceiling is made up of the same ugly, dirty tiles as pretty much every public building Malik's ever been in. There's another bed on the other side of the room, but the person in it is apparently asleep, curled up with his back to Malik, his breathing deep and regular. The view out the window is of an uninspiring alleyway.

Malik gives up on trying to distract himself, because clearly there's nothing worth looking at in the room. Already, he can feel panic trying to worm its way into his mind- he can remember, vaguely, an accident, screams, a searing pain-

And he can remember sitting behind a desk in another place far away and long ago, like a missing arm is no big deal, like it's something he's already lived with for months and it doesn't even surprise him anymore. The memory doesn't make sense, it shouldn't be there, but what he saw in his dream isn't going away. If anything, it's burying itself deeper in his mind, like it belongs there, and nothing Malik does will force it away.

A little while later, a doctor with a serious face comes in and talks to Malik about the accident, and amputating his arm to save his life, and insurance and after care and a million other details. Malik doesn't much want to think about any of them, and after a while the doctor seems to take the hint. He's moving for the door when the last person Malik wants to see comes walking in.

The doctor looks between Malik and Altair- or, whatever his name is. He has the same face as the man in his dreams, but there's no way they're actually the same person. "You have a visitor," the doctor says, and Malik scowls.

"I don't want to see him," he says.

"Just five minutes."

"I'm sorry," says the doctor. "But patient policy says-"

"He's here to see me."

Everyone in the room turns to look at the patient in the other bed, who has apparently woken up and is sitting there, listening to the conversation. Malik glares over at the man, who looks like he's about to join the list of people making today a very bad day. For a minute the room is quiet, then-

"Yea. I'm here to see that guy," says Altair.

Or whatever his name is.

-/-

Altair crosses the room without looking at Malik, but he doesn't need to see the man to know he's angry. He can almost feel Malik's glare on his back, sharp as daggers. Which isn't fair, really, because he hasn't done anything wrong, except maybe last night when he sat up outside Malik's apartment. He can grudgingly admit that might have been taking it a little far.

There's one chair next to the stranger's bed, and Altair arranges it so it faces both Malik and the stranger before he sits down. "Thanks," he says, and the stranger shrugs. The motion is casual, but Altair doesn't miss the sharp look in his eyes.

"No problem," he says, and suddenly he looks away, one hand fiddling with the thin hospital blanket on the bed. It's his left hand- the right is wrapped in layers of thick white bandages. He looks harmless enough, but he's obviously nervous, and for no reason Altair can see.

Malik's busy ignoring the two of them, so Altair turns his attention to figuring out what's going on with the stranger. "So what's your story?" he asks. "I should probably know, since apparently I'm here to visit you."

"It's a little complicated," the stranger says, and gives a forced smile and a laugh. But he scratches at the bandages on his hand absentmindedly and says, "Well, my name's Desmond." The name on the char at the end of his bed is James Smith. "I'm-" He hesitates, just for a moment. Most people wouldn't even notice, but Altair is not most people. "I'm a bartender. Or I used to be. I seriously doubt I still have a job."

"Why not?"

"Missed too much work," Desmond says, then shrugs. "It's not a big deal. I mean, my dad always said I was wasting my life at that job. Obviously I don't want to admit he was right-" this time his smile is a little more genuine. "But I think it's time to give something else a try."

"Just like that?" Altair asks. "Most people have a hard time changing their whole life at the drop of a hat."

"It's been a weird few months," Desmond mutters. He takes a deep breath and makes an obvious effort to change the subject. "So what about you?" he asks. "Why doesn't your friend want to see you?"

"We're not exactly friends," Altair admits.

"Then what are you?"

"Soulmates," Altair says, and for some reason that makes Desmond laugh out loud. "What?"

"Nothing," Desmond says. "It's just- what, you're in love or something?"

Altair stares at him. For some reason, he feels like they're having two different conversations. Obviously the word soulmate used to have a romantic connotation, but thanks to the circinus it's taken on a more generalized meaning in the past hundred or so years. Most people wouldn't jump to the same conclusion as Desmond. "No," he says slowly. "It's just a circinus thing."

"A what?"

Altair sticks his arm out so the circinus on it is more visible, but Desmond just stares like he's never seen anything like it before.

"I don't get it," he says. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Malik's clearly been listening, because he actually turns around when he hears this to give Desmond the same disbelieving look Altair can feel on his own face. _Everyone _knows what circinus means, but Desmond looks legitimately confused. It's weird, like meeting someone that doesn't know what fingers are for.

Desmond groans and covers his face with his hands. "I was supposed to know that, I guess," he says, and for several minutes no one in the room speaks. Altair looks over at Malik, who for once is looking back at him with something other than anger. He's wearing a 'what's his problem?' face that perfectly matches the question in Altair's mind right now.

Finally, Altair decides to just ask. "Yea," he says. "You should absolutely know what a circinus means. Everyone knows what they mean. Why don't you?"

Desmond makes a nervous motion with his uninjured hand. It could have just been a twitch, but Altair recognizes it. If Desmond had been wearing a hidden blade, it would have just extended. Most assassins pick it up at some point. Altair acts without thinking, grabbing Desmond's forearm and pulling it toward him.

_"You have five fingers,"_ he says. Right now, with Malik in the room behind him, with Desmond abruptly bringing back memories of his first life, he doesn't even realize he's not speaking English.

Desmond pulls his arm away, and mutters, _"So do you."_

Three words, but they tell Altair so much. That Desmond speaks Arabic- and an ancient variant, nine centuries out of date. That he understands five fingers is one too many to work a hidden blade. That he knows Altair should be missing a finger himself.

_"Who are you?" _Altair asks, suddenly tense. His vision flickers from normal colors to the sharp reds and blues of eagle vision, where Desmond glows a strong, reassuring blue. Normally, that would be enough for Altair to trust him, but this time there's Malik on the other side of the room, newly injured and with, apparently, no idea what's going on.

_"I told you my name," _Desmond says, and it's clear he's not willing to say anything else.

_"That's not good enough," _Altair growls. _"I don't know you, but my soulmate-" _He watches Desmond squirm a little at the word _"Is sleeping ten feet away from you. Can I trust you not to harm him?"_

Desmond studies Altair for a long moment before he answers, and there's something unnervingly familiar in that stare. It reminds Altair uncomfortably of himself, and it strikes him suddenly how similar he and Desmond actually look- a few small changes and they could be twins. Finally Desmond answers, interrupting the train of thought. _"Altair," _he says. _"I swear to you, I would never harm Malik." _The words are surprising- not so much because of what Desmond says, but the way he says it. He sounds adamant, so much so that it is impossible for Altair to doubt he's telling the truth. He just doesn't understand why.

He's about to ask when a nurse comes in and announces that visiting hours are over, that he can come back tomorrow if he wants but he really needs to leave the room now. Altair, reluctant but not wanting to cause a scene, nods and follows her out of the room.

It's not until he's outside the hospital that it occurs to Altair to wonder how Desmond knew his name.

**-/-**

**I feel like I should be apologizing for continuing to write this... I mean, I know it's a pretty terrible story, but I already have a bunch of chapters written, so I guess there's no harm in at least putting those out.**

**So yea. Apologies to anyone that chose to read this expecting something good. :)**


	6. Bleeding and Broken 1

Desmond waits until night has fallen and Malik is definitely asleep before he gets out of bed and walks on silent feet to the other side of the room, where he can study the other man more closely without being watched in return. He's burning with questions, but there are none to be found in Malik's silent, sleeping face. In the end, Desmond runs a frustrated hand through his hair and sits back down on his own bed.

Nothing that's happened today makes any sense. Actually, nothing that's happened since he woke up in the hospital three days ago makes any sense. He can remember talking to Juno in the temple in New York, resigning himself to dying so the world will live, and then a searing, unbelievable pain in the hand that's touching the pedestal. After that- nothing, until the hospital.

He woke with burns on his right hand going all the way up to his elbow and a case of minor malnutrition from being on the run for four months. The doctor that comes by every so often says they found him unconscious just outside the hospital entrance, but Desmond has no idea who would have left him there, or why. Surely, his injuries weren't bad enough for the others to just abandon him there, but he can't think of any other explanation that fits the facts. So he gives a fake name when they ask, and waits for something to happen so all this will make sense.

But suddenly things make even less sense than before, and Desmond can feel the first hints of panic as he tries to process what he's seen today. He has to be insane, there's no other way to explain all this- except he doesn't feel insane. In fact, he hasn't felt this sane in a long time, not since before he ever heard of an animus.

He forces his mind away from the possibility that he really _is _insane and back to the facts as he knows them.

Fact 1- Early this morning, the hospital seemed a lot busier than normal, and when Desmond looks at the news, he sees that there's been a huge pile-up somewhere in the city. Six cars, a bus, and about half a dozen pedestrians with the bad luck of being nearby at the time. A little while later, a pair of nurses brought in a man to fill the empty bed in Desmond's room.

Fact 2- That man is _definitely_ Malik Al-Sayf, beat up and with a newly amputated arm, but looking amazingly healthy for a man that should be many centuries dead. And there isn't any doubt that it's the same man- thanks to his time in the animus, Desmond knows the man's face extremely well. Too well for him to have any doubt.

Fact 3- Malik doesn't act like Malik. When he speaks, his voice is unmistakably American, modern and with an unremarkable Midwestern accent. When someone comes by during the afternoon to take down Malik's contact information, he gives an address in New York, a cell and work number, insurance information, and a lot of other details that tell Desmond that Malik has a real life in this century, one that doesn't agree at all with what Desmond knows of the man.

Fact 4- Altair's here, too, looking just as strange and modern as Malik, but at the same time, somehow… not. If Desmond hadn't known him, he would have that Altair is just another broke student struggling to make it through college. But there's a look in his eye that Desmond finds unmistakable, and if anything, that just confuses Desmond more. Altair clearly knows why this is wrong, but for some reason he acts like he doesn't.

Fact 5- Circinus, whatever that's even supposed to be. Desmond's never seen or heard of anything like it, but the twin looks of disbelief he gets from Altair and Malik tells him that he should. And- soulmates? The idea is ridiculous and strange and Desmond gets the feeling that he's not quite understanding it the right way-

"Hello?"

His thoughts are abruptly interrupted by a quiet voice from the doorway, and Desmond jumps out of bed, suddenly tense and afraid, because he knows that voice, and even in a day already filled with impossible things, this one takes him by surprise.

"I didn't mean to startle you," Lucy says, and she's just the way Desmond remembers her from the days when they barely knew each other, back in Abstergo. Before they escaped the building, before they really got to know each other, before-

He realizes his eyes are fixed on her stomach, where there should be a wound, and with an effort forces himself to look back up at her face. "What-" his mouth is dry, and Desmond has to swallow two or three times before he can finish the sentence. "What are you doing here?"

"Sorry," Lucy says. "I know this is probably unexpected, but-" she laughs, a little nervously, and holds out her left arm so Desmond can see the circinus marking on the inside of her wrist. He stares at it, still not comprehending. "I couldn't resist," Lucy says. "I wanted to meet you." She smiles. "My name's Lucy, by the way."

He barely manages to keep himself from telling her he already knows this, and instead says, without thinking, because this is Lucy and no matter what, she at least deserves his real name- "Mine's Desmond."

She keeps looking at his arms, crossed defensively over his chest like he's expecting her to drop the act and attack him. The look is almost expectant, but Desmond has no idea what she's waiting for. Finally, Lucy says. "Can I see it?"

"What?" Desmond asks.

"Your circinus."

But he doesn't have one, he doesn't even know what the word really _means_. Weird markings and soulmates and he doesn't even know what else. But he holds up his arm anyway, which is blank apart from the familiar tattoo that's been there for years.

-/-

Lucy looks between the ridiculously tattooed arm (because really, why would anyone purposefully put a tattoo there, right where the circinus is supposed to be?) and Desmond's face, confused and a little afraid. "You don't have one," she says, and Desmond's face drops to the floor. Lucy can't remember the last time she's seen someone look this defeated.

"I don't even know what we're talking about," he admits. "I never heard of circinus before today."

"How do you not know?" Lucy asks. She glances down at her wrist, as if willing the circinus to suddenly swing around, point to someone else, anyone else (someone less complicated, maybe), but it remains stubbornly fixed on the man in front of her.

This isn't at all how she expected the first meeting with her soulmate to go. She's not even supposed to be here- she has a job three floors up running some of the more sophisticated medical equipment, and she's supposed to be there now, running maintenance and making sure everything's ready for the next time it's needed. She could lose her job just for being here- she's not supposed to leave her post during work hours, but her circinus has been bothering her for three days straight, and she couldn't stand wondering anymore. "Everyone knows."

"Well I _don't_," Desmond sanps, and his tone is desperate and afraid and suddenly Lucy finds herself pitying him.

"Circinus," she says quietly. "It's a Latin word- means 'a pair of compasses', because that's what they are. Everyone's born with the mark, but it's too pale to be visible unless you're pretty close to your soulmate."

"Soulmate?" Desmond asks, and his face turns red.

"Because most people end up…" Lucy feels herself blushing as well. "Romantically involved with their soulmate, and that matches the word's original meaning. But the circinus just points to the person that will have the biggest impact in your life, and there are lots of ways for that to happen. Parent and child. Friends. Siblings. In some cases a person's soulmate can be their worst enemy."

At these words Desmond's gaze drops to somewhere on Lucy's stomach again, and she wonders with a slight tinge of irritation if he has a fetish, or if he's just weird. "But- I mean, everyone knows that. How do you not? And why don't you have a mark, too?"

Desmond's mouth opens and closes several times, like he's trying to think of something to say. Before he can, though, their attention is suddenly distracted by a scream. Lucy jumps and the man turns, suddenly frowning, to the other bed in the room. Lucy had almost forgotten it was occupied, but suddenly the patient there is screaming and spasming on the bed, his body arcing in obvious pain.

Lucy half turns to leave the room and call for help, but Desmond says "Don't," and she freezes. His voice, previously so uncertain and confused, is suddenly commanding. He hurries to the other bed, and lays a hand on the man's shoulder. "Malik," he says, voice low and urgent. "Wake up. You need to wake up or it's only going to get worse-"

The man's- Malik's eyes fly open at the words, but it's obvious he doesn't know where he is or what's going on. He pushes back against Desmond, yelling something in a language Lucy doesn't know. Desmond clearly does, though, because he answers in the same tongue. He manages to pin Malik's arm down so the man can't hit him anymore (Lucy can see a black eye already starting to form on his face where Malik got in a lucky hit). He keeps speaking, his voice calm despite the obvious worry in his posture. Gradually, Malik calms down, stops struggling, and Lucy can see he looks more aware of his surroundings.

"Altair?" he says, in a voice that's so quiet Lucy can barely hear it.

"No," Desmond says, and Malik lets out a sigh, half disappointment, half relief, and closes his eyes. Before Desmond even steps away from the bed, he's asleep again.

"What was that?" Lucy asks. She keeps her voice low, not willing to risk waking Malik back up.

Desmond seems to be thinking along the same lines, because he doesn't answer until he's back on the other side of the room, as far away from Malik as possible. Lucy follows close behind, and the two of them settle onto Desmond's bed as though it's the most natural thing in the world. Malik's outburst has driven all thought of their awkward conversation from earlier out of Lucy's head.

"A nightmare," Desmond says.

"Has he done this before?" Lucy asks. "Is that how you knew what to do?"

"No," says Desmond. "I mean- I don't know if this is normal for him. I just met him today. But I used to have nightmares a lot like that…" he trails off, and his eyes are focused on something distant that Lucy can't see.

She doesn't dare ask him what kind of dreams he's had that are as bad as the one he just saw, so instead Lucy says, "What was he saying?"

"It was… sort of a flashback," Desmond says. His brow furrows in thought. "Or a repressed memory, maybe? That could explain…" he trails off, apparently realizing that Lucy's still listening, and instead of finishing his thought, says- "He thought I was someone else."

"Altair," says Lucy, and Desmond nods. He won't look at her, and Lucy realizes that the conversation is over. She gets up quietly and makes her way to the door, Desmond still lost in his own thoughts. Right before she leaves the room, Desmond calls out after her- "Hey, Lucy?"

"Yea?"

"Will you…" he hesitates, clearly struggling over something in his mind. "Will you come back later?"

She studies him critically, the man with no circinus markings, who is apparently her soulmate, who deals with violent nightmares like they're a daily occurrence, who looks at her- when he can stand to look at her- like he can't believe she's really there.

"I'll be back tomorrow."


	7. Past and Present 6

_Tonight's dream is chaotic and broken and not at all clear, a rush of images and memories that he doesn't remember but he knows must be his. In the dream, he knows things that aren't true and can't be true because nothing is true and everything is permitted. He remembers a brother that he doesn't have except he does have a brother and his brother is dead and it's all Altair's fault because he wouldn't follow the creed but it's his fault too because he should have done something or said something, and now-_

_Malik opens his mouth and screams as the grief and pain hit him together- he feels a hand on his shoulder and a voice in his ear but the words are foreign and the only thing he understands is his name. His eyes fly open and he stares around, not knowing what to expect but knowing it isn't this. The room is strange and metal and it's nothing he's seen before, it's not Masyaf or Jerusalem or anywhere he's ever been before, but he can't shake the feeling that he should know it anyway and for a second he's scared, but only for a second. The man standing over him is dressed strangely, but Malik recognizes the face and a hot flame of anger erupts suddenly in his mind, burning up the fear and he yells at Altair to get away from him, just get away because he's done enough damage already._

_He lashes out but the movement is weak- he feels heavy and tired and wrong, and he only gets one good blow in before Altair pins him down. He keeps talking the whole time, telling Malik to calm down, that what he's seeing and feeling isn't real, it's just a memory and a nightmare-_

_And slowly Malik stops struggling, because the things in front of him are starting to make more sense- he's still in the hospital. Of course he is. He doesn't know why he would think anything else but at the same time he doesn't know how he got there because he should still be in Masyaf, and nothing makes sense, and he looks up at Altair and feels a sudden stab of doubt because this man is paler and taller than Altair but his face is exactly the same-_

_"Altair?" Malik asks, and the man looks at him with eyes that understand._

_"No," he says, and Malik sighs, not knowing if this is good or bad news, and wonders how he could have mistaken this stranger for Altair, and who_ is_ Altair, anyway…_

_His mind slips into a deep pit of darkness, and for the first time in twenty five years, Malik sleeps without dreams._

-/-

When Malik wakes again, he feels more like his normal self and less like whoever it is he becomes when he dreams. It's terrifying, because he keeps feeling himself slipping farther away from himself every time he falls asleep. Ever since his circinus first appeared, it's just been getting worse and worse, _and it's all Altair's fault-_

He clenches his fist tightly at the last thought because it isn't _his_. There's an anger there that's too deep for a man he barely knows. His soulmate is still a stranger, but the anger he feels is all tied up in loss and disappointment and betrayal, and it scares Malik that he doesn't understand where the feelings are coming from.

A faint noise from the other side of the room draws Malik's attention away from his own thoughts, and he sees Desmond sitting up in bed watching as Malik struggles. He has a fresh black eye, and Malik remembers half waking from his dream, lashing out at him because he thought-

"How are you feeling?" Desmond asks.

"My shoulder's killing me," Malik grunts.

"I meant-" Desmond taps the side of his head with his unbandaged hand. "Mentally."

"I don't want to talk about it," Malik says harshly. His dreams are terrifying and horrible, but mostly private, and he's not going to start discussing them with strangers, even if he does feel sort of bad for hitting him last night.

"Fine then," Desmond says. "You can just listen. I'll talk." He gets out of bed and crosses the room so that he's standing in front of Malik. "Your nightmares-"

"They're just bad dreams," Malik says. He really doesn't want to have this conversation, but if Desmond's going to insist on talking, Malik can't make himself sit here and listen without defending his sanity.

"You're dreaming of Masyaf," Desmond says quietly. The foreign word sends chills down Malik's spine, because he's never heard it before, but somehow it still manages to summon up a whole host of complicated images. He shies away from them, closing off his mind before he can see or understand, but he can't block off the overwhelming sense of _home_ that come with them.

"No," he says.

"Yes," Desmond says, emphatically. "And I don't know why, or how-" he sounds legitimately confused for a second, before managing to pull himself together and keep going. "But I've had dreams like yours before and I can tell you that blocking them out is only going to make them worse."

"You used to dream-"

"There were... other people in my head," Desmond says. "It's a long story. But I'd have nightmares, and scream in my sleep..."

He's quiet for a long time, so Malik prompts, "Used to? Why did they stop?"

Desmond gives a bitter laugh. "I hit my breaking point- one of my friends died, and it was pretty much my fault. I ended up in a coma, and worked through some stuff. It... wasn't easy, but it's not like I have time to be going crazy..."

Crazy. Is that what's going on here?

A doctor comes in to prod at Malik for a while, and there's no more talk of nightmares or crazy for the rest of the morning.

-/-

Altair doesn't make it to the hospital until evening- unfortunately, the rest of his life hasn't gone on hold just because Malik's in the hospital. He has appointments and classes and work to do that keeps him busy until 5:30, when he finally has a few hours free.

He can tell the second he steps into the room that something's happened since he was here last. Malik seems more awake than he did yesterday, but he's clearly lost in thought, his eyes distant, face screwed up in an expression of extreme concentration. On the other side of the room, Desmond's deep in conversation with a woman wearing a hospital employee's badge. He's sporting a black eye that Altair knows he didn't have yesterday, and he looks tired.

Desmond's too occupied with his other visitor to do more than nod at Altair when he comes in, but Malik doesn't say anything when Altair sits down next to his bed instead. In fact, he doesn't react at all, which is worrying as well. For a while, they sit in silence, both lost in their own thoughts, until Desmond says from the other side of the room- "He dreamed about you last night."

Altair looks up- the woman is gone, and Desmond is giving Altair that look again, the one he noticed yesterday, the one that's almost _disturbingly_ familiar.

"Shut up," Malik snaps, the first words he's spoken since Altair came in.

"What kind of dreams?" Altair asks.

"The kind that aren't any of your business," says Malik. He shoots Desmond an angry glare, and the other man shrugs.

"I told you," he says. "Ignoring them isn't going to make anything better."

Malik scowls at him, and then- seeming to realize that he's outnumbered, changes the subject. "Who are you?" he asks bluntly. "I don't know anything about you other than your name."

"I thought you wanted me to just leave," Altair says.

Malik snorts. "I can tell that's not going to happen," he says. "Since it seems like you're going to follow me around for the rest of my life."

"Alright," Altair says, a little uneasily. He's not sure where to start. "What do you want to know?"

"What do you do for a living?" Malik asks.

"I'm a grad student," Altair says. He's uncomfortably aware of Desmond's eyes on the back of his neck, and makes a mental note to find out later why the man's so interested in him. "Archeology. I work part time when I can, but I have a hard time keeping a job." He's been through more jobs in the last few years than most people do in their entire lives, because none of them can hold his interest for long.

"People still study archeology?" Malik asks.

"Yes," Altair says, a little more harshly than he'd intended. He's heard enough why-are-you studying-thats and you'll-never-get-a-jobs to last a lifetime. And then, because Malik's still looking at him with a skeptical, disbelieving expression that stings Altair's pride, he launches into an explanation of the research he hopes to do over the summer, the project at Masyaf.

He hadn't planned to bring Masyaf into the conversation so soon, and he can tell right away that it's a mistake. As soon as he hears the word, Malik turns away from Altair and glares at Desmond. "You told him," he says accusingly.

"When would I have done that?" Desmond demands.

"Told me what?" Altair demands, but Malik ignores him. Desmond, apparently deciding not to risk Malik's anger, stays quiet as well. The silence hits Altair like a physical blow- he doesn't like knowing Malik doesn't trust him, not after everything they've been through together. And knowing Malik doesn't remember anything doesn't make him feel any better about it. "Malik," he says, and he hates how hurt his voice sounds. "Please."

A woman comes to the door and stops on the threshold, looking between Malik and Altair, clearly not sure if it's alright to come in. Malik notices and turns to look at her, a move that- probably not coincidentally- involves turning his back on Altair. "Hey Aveline," he says.

"Am I interrupting something?" she asks.

"No." Malik glares at Altair.

"Alright then." The woman smiles, and the expression fits her face so well that it doesn't seem out of place, even in the dark cloud that seems to hover over the room. "You're Malik's soulmate, right?"

"Yea," Altair says, and shakes her offered hand. "Altair."

"Nice to meet you." She has a firm, confident grip. "I'm Aveline- we work together."

Altair mutters some half-hearted pleasantry and retreats to Desmond's side of the room while Malik and Aveline talk.

Desmond looks up at Altair, obviously knowing what's coming next. He makes the same nervous gesture with his hand that Altair had noticed the day before- the one that looks like he's readying a hidden blade- and waits for the question they both know is coming.

Altair doesn't ask it until he's sitting, his face on Desmond's level so that they're barely a foot away. Then, quietly and in Arabic, he asks, _"What happened last night?"_

Desmond doesn't hesitate to answer, now that Malik isn't paying the two of them any attention. _"He had a nightmare," _he says. _"Screaming in his sleep. I woke him up, but he didn't know where he was or who I was- he thought I was you." _Altair can't help studying Desmond's face again, still so unnervingly similar to his own. Even the scar on his mouth- the one that's identical to the one Altair had in his first life, the one he doesn't have anymore- is exactly the same, and Altair can begrudgingly admit that the mistake is a reasonable one to make. If Desmond were a little darker or Altair a little lighter, they could be twins. And at times, the way Desmond moves and the scar and his expressions combine to make him seem closer to the Altair-from-Masyaf than the Altair-from-New-York does.

It's unnerving, and Altair finds his eyes abruptly on the floor, unable to meet his own- _Desmond's-_ gaze. There's no accusation in the look, but Altair feels it anyway. He's let himself relax in this new life. There are no enemies to fight so he doesn't train much, doesn't practice often. His mind remembers the old skills but his body barely knows them. You aren't good enough, the look seems to tell him. You forgot what it means to be an assassin.

_"Is that how you got the…" _Altair touches his own face, and sees Desmond wince as he copies the gesture, feeling the black eye there. He offers a sheepish smile, and instantly his face is his own again. The shade of the man Altair used to be melts away, and the atmosphere in the room seems to brighten a little.

_"Yea," _Desmond says. _"I should have expected it, but- anyway. I talked him down and eventually he fell asleep again."_

_"And Masyaf?" _Altair asks.

_"Is what he dreamed of," _Desmond says.

_"I-" _But that's all he has time for before the woman Desmond had been talking to when Altair first came in walks up next to the two of them. "Lucy," Desmond says, and his face turns red.

Lucy's face is red too as she asks, "Who's your friend?"

"Oh-" Desmond gestures to Altair. "Lucy, Altair. Altair, Lucy."

Altair nods at her, and Lucy glances over her shoulder at Malik before returning the gesture.

"Was he there?" Desmond asks.

"Yes." Lucy's voice is hesitant, and Altair wonders who they're talking about. "They brought him in yesterday- he was in the same accident as Malik."

"I figured he would be," Desmond says softly. "Is he-"

"He's alive," Lucy says. "For now. But I know the doctor in charge of his case- Vidic-"

Lucy doesn't seem to notice the way Desmond's entire body seems to suddenly tense, ready to run or fight, or his suddenly wide eyes, or even the tiny noise he makes, like she's physically punched him in the stomach. But Altair does, and he adds it to the list of things about Desmond that he really needs an answer to.

"He said Kadar probably won't make it through the night."

"Kadar?" Altair demands. Desmond flinches a little, and on the other side of the room he sees Malik look up abruptly, face creased into an odd, strained expression, like he's trying to remember something he can't quite get a grasp on. _"How do you even know that name?"_ he demands.

_"I just do,"_ Desmond says.

_"Not. Good. Enough." _

_"Look," _Desmond says. _"I'll tell you everything, I swear, but if Kadar's not going to last much longer, don't you think Malik needs to see him?"_

_"Yea," _Altair says. He feels his anger drain away as quickly as it came. It doesn't matter if Malik remembers his brother or not, he deserves the chance to say goodbye. "Lucy," he says, turning around to face her. "Can you get us in to see Kadar?"

"The two of you?" she asks, looking between Altair and Desmond.

"And Malik," they say together. Altair glances over at Malik, who's frowning but doesn't argue. He's still wearing that same, strained expression.

"I-" Lucy shrugs. "Maybe, but not until tonight. Technically he's only supposed to be able to see family…"

"Thank you," Desmond says, and his voice is so earnest that Lucy's face turns red.

"No problem," she says, and gets up to leave. "I'll be back in a few hours."

**-/-**

**So, quick housekeeping note- first, I've changed the genre of this fic from romance/friendship to hurt/comfort/friendship. This was originally intended to be practice for me in writing romance (I am absolutely terrible at it), but the way it's developing is mostly along pre-romance-if-it's-romance-at-all lines. Not particularly important, but worth mentioning on the off chance anyone was holding out hope for anything sexy at any point (honestly that was never going to happen anyway- I'm asexual, I just don't get the point of sex).**


	8. Past and Present 7

_He's six years old when his little brother is born._

_There were others between Malik and Kadar, a parade of brothers and sisters born sick or never born at all, who last days or weeks before they stop crying and moving and breathing. Malik gets used to the disappointment, learns to know the look of disappointment in his mother's face, to recognize the loss in his father's eyes._

_Kadar is different, though. Malik is never allowed in the room while his mother's giving birth, so he climbs up the side of the building- another thing he's not supposed to do, but it's not difficult and he isn't _that _high up, anyway- and crouches on the roof above her room, ignoring hands and knees that are scraped and bleeding from the climb._

_From here, he can just barely hear the noise of his mother's tired voice, the movements of the woman who comes every time to help her through the process, and then tell her how long the baby has to live. Malik has no idea what happens when a woman has a baby, but it doesn't sound nice, and he's glad he doesn't have to see. His mother doesn't scream or cry or yell, the way he's heard women are supposed to. She's too tired, and her voice, which Malik can just barely hear through the roof, is quiet, though. Malik knows she doesn't have any hope that this new baby will live either._

_He doesn't move for many hours, until the sun goes down and the moon comes up. He expects someone to come get him, but no one does. So he stays until he's almost asleep, curled against the roof, shivering in the early Autumn chill. Then finally, near dawn, he hears the crying, and sits up, suddenly wide awake. The crying is loud and strong and full of life in a way Malik hasn't heard before._

_He falls more than climbs down from the roof, coming away with bruises on his knees and dirt on his hands, and races back inside. His father and the other woman are standing next to his mother's bed. Her face is drawn and tired, clearly exhausted from the long day, and the baby in her arms is screaming louder than Malik even knew a baby could scream, but she's _smiling_._

_She sees him, standing hesitant in the door, and smiles more widely. "Malik," she says. "Come meet your brother."_

_Malik walks up to her on cautious feet, standing just far enough away that he can't see the baby's face. He doesn't want to see, because then it will be harder after it's gone. "When will this one die?" he asks, and gets a whack on the back of the head from his father. Not hard, just enough to remind him to mind his manners. His mother shakes her head._

_"He won't die," she says. "Kadar's going to live."_

_Cautiously, because he doesn't quite believe her yet, Malik inches closer and stands up on his toes so he can see Kadar's face better. It's red and ugly with tears, but the instant Malik sees his brother, he loves him._

_Very slowly, Malik reaches forward and brushes his hand against the baby's face, reassuring himself that he's there, that he's real, that he's alive. "You're going to live," he tells the baby, and the words are both an echo and a promise._

-/-

He wakes slowly, dragging himself out of sleep like a drowning man struggling back to the surface. By the time he opens his eyes, the dream has already faded into a sludge of mixed up feelings and distant memories, but Malik doesn't feel afraid or angry the way he usually does when he wakes up- instead, he feels… peaceful. He struggles to keep hold of the feelings, trying to remember what the dream was about, but it's too distant. He remembers being very young in the dream, or memory, or whatever it is, but when he tries to capture the details they slip away.

Lucy's back, Malik notices, and she, Altair, and Desmond are moving around quietly, getting ready to go.

To see Kadar.

The name shouldn't mean anything to him, and in some ways it doesn't. He's heard it in some of his dream-memories, but that's all. _Kadar_, he thinks, and nothing comes to mind. But still… his stomach is twisted into a tangle of nervous knots, and his heart is beating way too quickly, in excitement and worry and fear. _Kadar, _he thinks, and feels unfamiliar emotions wash over and into and through him, until he doesn't know what's real and what isn't.

"Are you ready?" Lucy asks. She looks worried, and Desmond puts a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it slightly to reassure her.

"Yes," Malik says, and thinks _No._

"Alright." Lucy checks her watch. "We have maybe ten minutes once we get in there, and then we have to leave."

"Calm down, Lucy," Desmond says. "It'll be fine."

"The whole accident is still being investigated by the police," Lucy says. "It was all a big mess, they haven't sorted out who's at fault yet- If we get caught I could lose my job."

"We won't be caught," Altair says, and he sounds so confident that Lucy actually seems a little reassured. "Where is he?"

"Two floors down," Lucy says. "ICU."

Malik stands, wobbling a little as he does, still unbalanced and unused to his missing limb. Altair's there at his side to catch him before Malik even knows he needs catching, steadying him with one hand. Desmond tosses some clothes- a pair of jeans and a T-shirt- their way. Altair catches them without even looking and passes them to Malik.

"We don't want to be noticed," Desmond says, and Malik sees that he's already dressed in similar street clothes, along with a white hoodie whose wide sleeves hide the bandages on his arm.

"Right," Malik says, and changes as quickly as he can while the other three pointedly look in other directions. It's difficult to do with one arm, but to his relief, none of the others offer to help. Malik's not sure he'd be able to take that right now. "I'm ready," he says when he finally finishes, and Lucy glances at her watch.

"Do we still have time?" Altair asks.

"If we hurry," she says, and leads the way out of the room and down the hall.

It's only two floors, but it feels longer- every time they pass a doctor or nurse, Malik feels his heart rate speed up, worried that they'll be caught and sent away before they get to Kadar. No one so much as looks at them twice, though, and almost before Malik knows it, they're standing in another hospital room.

It's smaller than the one Malik and Desmond share, but has only one bed in it. Malik notices the bed first, then the cards and flowers that fill most of the empty space in the room. Whoever Kadar is, he's clearly well loved, and for some reason that makes Malik feel a little bit better.

Lucy starts to step into the room, but Desmond catches her by the arm and shakes his head. "Let's stay out here," he says quietly.

"But-"

Malik doesn't hear what else she says, because that's when he stops listening. He can hear blood pounding in his ears, and the steady but slow beeps from the various machines hooked up to- and now he looks- the boy on the bed.

Malik stops next to him, sinking to his knees next to the boy. He can feel Altair's presence just behind him, and for once he doesn't complain. It feels right for the three of them to be here right now, but Malik doesn't question the emotion too closely.

The boy's face is pale and almost unrecognizable under a mess of tubes and machinery, but Malik knows it anyway. He's dreamed of it his whole life. He's dreamed of Kadar, dead and dying a million different ways, but somehow the real thing is so much worse.

Very slowly, Malik reaches forward and brushes his hand against the boy's face, reassuring himself that he's there, that he's real, that he's alive. "You're going to live," he tells the boy, and the words are both an echo and a promise.

"Malik?" Altair says quietly, but Malik doesn't acknowledge him. They don't have much time, and he doesn't want to waste his last few moments with his brother by arguing with Altair.

Brother..?

After a few more minutes that seem to take no time at all, Malik feels Altair's hand on his shoulder, raising him to his feet, guiding him away from Kadar and out of the room. Malik allows himself to be led, mind blank.

He never afterwards remembers how he came to be back in his own room, dressed in the stiff blue hospital gown, as though he'd never left at all. But he never forgets that when he starts to sob- quiet but no less intense than if he'd been wailing, it's Altair who sits by his side, one arm around his shoulders, until late into the night.

-/-

Finally, Malik calms himself, and Altair says quietly, "Are you alright?" even though he knows the answer will be no. It's quiet in the room- Desmond hasn't said anything while Malik cries, and Lucy fled almost as soon as they got back to the room. She'd looked worried and afraid and not certain of how to deal with what she's seen, and no one protested when she left.

Sure enough, Malik shakes his head. "I don't know what's going on," he says. "I'm feeling things I shouldn't. I'm having dreams that seem real but they _can't _be. I think I've known you for years, but we've only just met." He turns his head so he's looking straight at Altair, for the first time all night. "What's happening?"

Altair doesn't answer. He's thinking of his own feelings when he first remembered, and how Edward reacted when Altair explained it all to him. Neither of them had to deal with what Malik's going through right now, and neither of them took it very well. It's a difficult thing to deal with even under the best of circumstances, and these are not the best of circumstances.

"It's a long story," Altair says. "I'm not really sure where to start."

"Start with Kadar," says Malik, his voice barely a whisper. "He's my brother?" Altair nods, and Malik scowls. For a second, he looks almost like the Malik that Altair remembers. "But I don't have a brother."

"Not in this lifetime," Altair says, and notices Desmond is leaning against the wall by his bed, and listening carefully as well. He considers waiting to talk to Malik until they're alone, but decides against lying to him any longer, and besides- he has some questions of his own for Desmond later. There's no point keeping secrets now.

"What?"

So Altair tells him a little. Not everything, because he's not sure Malik can deal with it all right now. He talks about Masyaf, of being born and living and dying in another time and another place. Then he stops, and the room falls silent.

Not for long, though. It's been barely a minute when Desmond shakes his head. "I don't understand," he says. "How did you end up here and now? You should both be dead."

It's interesting, Altair decides, that Desmond's questioning their presence in the present instead of the past. It's technically a lot more likely that everything he remembers of Masyaf is wrong than that his life here is.

"I don't know," he admits. "Reincarnation, maybe."

"No…" Desmond cocks his head to one side and studies first Altair, then Malik, intently. "How would that explain Malik losing his arm again? Or Kadar-" he looks guiltily at Malik, who still hasn't said a word, or even moved at all. Desmond starts over, this time without mentioning Kadar. "It's just too much of a coincidence," he says. "You have the same names, you sound the same, you even look exactly the same-"

"And how do you know that?" Altair asks. "How do you know what we looked like a thousand years ago?"

"I-"

"Altair," Malik interrupts, and Altair looks down at the hopeless, desperate expression on his friend's face. The sight of it makes Altair's stomach twist, and at that moment he _hates_ whatever magic it is that's brought the two of them here.

"Yea?" Altair says.

"Last time," Malik says quietly. "I think it was my fault that Kadar died."

"What?" Neither in this life, nor in the first one, could Altair have imagined those words coming from Malik. "No, Malik-"

"Listen," Malik says, with more force than he's displayed since he saw his brother dying in the room below them. "You said you used to have dreams about Masyaf, and life there, but I-" he takes a deep, ragged breath and goes on. "Every night, until just a couple days ago, I've had the same nightmare. I see Kadar dead and dying. Every single night."

"That doesn't mean it's your fault," Altair says. "Malik, you were the one that acted with wisdom that day. It was my fault and nobody else's that Kadar was killed." He can tell Malik doesn't remember Solomon's Temple, that he's acting on feeling and not on knowing. But he also knows that Malik needs reassuring right now- and that Kadar's death _wasn't _his fault.

"It's true," Desmond says, and Altair wonders with irritation how he even knows.

"It's not true," Malik says. "I know it's my fault. The day I came to the city, I started having different dreams- memories of you, and Kadar." He looks down at his knees. "Today, I remembered…" he trails off, looking like a man trying desperately to think of something that happened a long time ago. When he speaks again, the words are halting. "I remember when Kadar was born. It was cold, and… everyone was worried. My mother had been through so many miscarriages-"

"I remember," Altair says. He'd been very young himself at the time, hadn't even known Malik or his family, but he remembered the way people would talk about Malik's mother, saying she must be cursed. Technically assassins didn't believe in curses, of course…

Malik goes on speaking like he hasn't even heard Altair. "But Kadar was healthy," he says. "And I promised him." He looks up, straight into Altair's eyes. "I promised him he would live."

"Malik…"

"So it doesn't matter," Malik says. "I don't care what you did or didn't do. I promised my brother he would live, and instead he died. I broke my promise, and it's my fault."

Altair watches as Malik draws back into himself, shutting out the real world as he does so. It's not a great sight- this isn't the Malik he knew in Masyaf, and it isn't the Malik he's only just starting to know in New York, either. It scares Altair, and he's starting to wonder if the reason their circinus has marked them as soulmates is because he's the one that's going to drive Malik to madness.

"His brother has to live," Desmond says, and Altair looks up at him. "There's no other way he's going to get through this."

Altair nods, just once. Then he crosses the room in three quick strides, catching Desmond by surprise as he pins him to the wall, one hand going for the man's throat, the other pinning his uninjured arm back against the wall. "I want answers," he growls. "How do you know so much about us? Why do you speak nine centuries old Arabic like it's your first language? Who are you and where do you come from?" He's angry and not thinking straight, too frustrated by the situation with Malik to be patient with Desmond a single second longer. If he has to force answers out of him, he will. But-

Desmond fights back, bringing one foot up to kick Altair out of the way, and following it with a quick punch when Altair staggers back. Altair ends up on the floor, Desmond on top of him, completely unable to move. For a second time that day, he feels like he can see himself, the way he used to be, looking out from behind Desmond's eyes…

Then the man blinks, and the moment passes. "We don't have to fight," he says, drawing back and offering a hand to Altair, who ignores it and stands on his own. "I was going to tell you everything, I swear."

Altair scowls at him. "You took your time with it," he says.

"Well, yea," Desmond says. "It's been a little crazy here." He gives Altair a sideways smile and adds, "You're out of practice."

"You're not doing yourself any favors," Altair says. He's already tired and upset, but now he's bruised as well. "Talk. Now."

**-/-**

**This chapter was a nightmare to write. Too many feels. Hopefully it came out alright, though...**


	9. Bleeding and Broken 2

Desmond doesn't hold anything back from Altair. He tells him about being kidnapped by Abstergo and forced into the animus, about escaping only to find out Lucy had been a traitor the entire time. About being in a coma, about the temple in New York, and sacrificing himself to save the world from Juno. He also explains his confusion with circinus. In the world he comes from (because honestly, he can't think of another explanation that makes sense- it's alternate universes or nothing), they don't exist.

"So that's why," Altair says when Desmond finishes. He looks almost like he's talking to himself, but Desmond answers anyway.

"Why what?" he asks.

"Nothing," Altair says, and he looks distinctly uncomfortable. "It's just- it's been a long time for me. Since Masyaf, I mean. I had two decades of pretty much normal twenty first century life. Some weird dreams, but otherwise…" he shrugs. "I have a family here and now. My mom's the manager for a grocery store, and dad's a dentist. A have a little sister, a dog, a _normal _family. I played baseball in high school, made the honor roll all four years."

Desmond doesn't say anything to this. Some of what he's hearing he's figured out on his own- it's obvious that the Altair standing in front of him now is not the same as the Altair he knows from the animus. Not exactly the same, anyway. It's not that he's a different person, exactly. More like he's adapted to be who he has to be for the twenty first century. But on the other hand, some of what he's hearing is new. Desmond has a hard time imagining Altair- old or new- having these insecurities, much less admitting to them. So Desmond stays quiet, and lets Altair say what he needs to say.

"Then one day I remembered everything," Altair goes on, speaking fast, like he's not going to be able to keep going if he doesn't hurry. "A whole lifetime of memories that were just as real as the other ones. And I know the memories are mine, and I know I _am_ that person, but at the same time I'm _not_, because I've had all these years of normalcy. I can't just go back to being the same person I used to be after that.

"So sometimes I look at you and it's like a snapshot of the person I was. We look almost the same, and sometimes the way you move, it's just too similar. I keep feeling like I'll never be as good as I used to be, like I'm failing myself by being too weak." He gestures at Malik, still huddled behind them. "I don't know what to do with him," he says. "Last time, I cost him his arm and his brother, and this time I think I'm going to cost him his mind-"

"Altair!" Desmond says, because he looks dangerously close to a panic attack. "Calm down, alright? Look, I'm sorry if I remind you too much of… well, you. It's the bleeding effect, like I told you. Trust me, if I could control it, I would. I'm made of so many bits and pieces of other people, I don't even know which ones are me anymore."

"It's fine," Altair says, although his voice says it clearly isn't. "Not your fault."

"Right," Desmond says. "So um- the other thing is I don't think it matters who you are or who you used to be, or whatever."

"It matters to me," Altair says. He'd been standing earlier, but now he slumps onto the chair by Desmond's bed, half slouched, eyes fixed on the carpet. It's not right, and it bothers Desmond to see him like that.

"Yea," says Desmond. He speaks slowly, because he's not good at giving advice and he's not sure that what he's saying is right. "And that's because you're upset and angry, alright? Because you have a friend that needs you, and it doesn't matter if you're a master assassin from the twelfth century or a broke grad student from the twenty first. All that matters is whether or not you're the kind of man that can come through for your friend when he needs you."

He watches as Altair thinks it over, watches his face grow hard and his posture straighten. Desmond knows Altair as well as he knows himself, and he knows that this uncertainty is something he can get past.

"I-" Altair's mouth settles into a grim line of determination, and whatever Altair says about not being the same man he was in the crusades, at this moment he looks like he could take on an army single handed. "I can be that man."

-/-

Lucy's already having a tough day when Vidic calls her into his office. She's tired and stressed and most of all confused by what she's seen in the past few days. But at the same time…

She's excited. Desmond isn't the soulmate she would have expected. He's… strange and broken and several different kinds of crazy. And more than that, he doesn't trust her. He likes her- Lucy can see it in his face whenever he can bring himself to look her in the eye, which isn't often. But every move he makes and every word he says tells Lucy, clear as day, that he doesn't trust her.

And he knows things, too. Like the boy. Desmond had asked her to check the list of victims for a boy named Kadar, because he was Malik's brother. And when she found him, it turned out they _were_ brothers (sort of? maybe? Lucy's still not sure what's going on with the two of them), even though they have different surnames, even though their medical records show two different families, two different lives lived hundreds of miles away.

And somehow, they're brothers, and somehow, Desmond had known that.

"Am I boring you, Miss Stillman?" Vidic snaps.

"No," Lucy says, and pulls her shirt sleeve down so it covers her circinus (and that's another thing- Desmond doesn't have one, but hers points straight to him, and circinus _always _come in pairs). "Just...thinking about something. Sorry, it won't happen again."

"Good," Vidic says. "Because I have a very important task for you."

Lucy sighs, but has the sense to keep it inside her head. Vidic's favors are never fun- she's a technician, and she runs and repairs some of the most complicated machinery in the hospital. Vidic, however, seems convinced that she's his own personal errand girl. "What do you need?" Lucy asks, because she's not stupid and she wants to keep her job.

"One of the most generous donators to this hospital will be bringing his son here later this week," Vidic says. "The boy's been in… an accident." There's something about the way he says accident that makes Lucy think it wasn't all that accidental at all. "He's been seriously injured, and he's been put into a medically induced coma until he recovers. The family is very private, and so I need you to arrange a room where the boy will not be disturbed."

"I can do that," Lucy says. It will take up way too much time out of her already busy day, but at least it sounds like her job begins and ends with setting the room up. It could be worse.

"Thank you," Vidic says. "You're free to go."

Lucy's halfway to the door when Vidic calls her back. "Wait."

"Yes?" Just in time, Lucy manages to paste a false smile back onto her face.

"The family's name is Kenway," Vidic says. "See that nobody hears it while the boy is staying here."

So find a room and keep a secret. Lucy nods. No big deal.


	10. Pain and Promises 1

_Vaguely, he knows there was a time when he was someone else._

_He can almost remember, if he strains his mind and makes an effort. He remembers strange people and stranger places- words and ideas that don't mean anything. He feels them in his mind- computers and televisions and cars and a hundred other words that somehow trigger feelings in him without his understanding what they mean._

_The feelings aren't his, though. They belong to… someone else. Someone he used to be, could be, might be…. The possibilities swirl around him like a flakes of snow in a blizzard, biting and burning where they touch his mind. Connor growls in frustration- a completely pointless act, since there's no one around to hear, but it makes him feel better. The things his mind is telling him don't make sense, but somehow he knows that if he can just wake up it will all come together. Or maybe he's just telling himself that because it hurts too much to stay here, in this dark nothingness, any longer._

_So he strains against the chains of darkness keeping him unconscious, binding him to this world of sleep and impossible dreams, and eventually- piece by piece- he feels them start to break apart. With renewed determination, Connor lunges toward the light that suddenly appears far off in the distance, and-_

_And that's when he feels the pain, and starts to scream._

-/-

He was wrong- waking is so much worse than being asleep, and Connor can't keep himself from yelling in pain as the hurt of a hundred cuts and bruises and burns hit him all at once- he never knew it was possible for a human body to be hurt this badly and still survive.

"Are you- Oh no." He hears a woman's voice, but can't see anything through the fog of pain that covers his vision. Desperate for sight of any kind, Connor switches to eagle vision- or tries to, at least. He can feel the ability sitting there in a corner of his mind, but unused and out of practice, and it doesn't make sense because he uses it _all the time_, but suddenly it's like his mind has forgotten how, like trying to use a muscle that hasn't been exercised in too long.

He feels a needle stab into the side of his arm, and a moment later the pain dulls to an almost bearable level. Connor takes a deep, shuddering breath, trying to collect himself.

"Are you alright?" Someone asks. The voice is the same as the woman he heard earlier, strangely accented (not British or French or Spanish, nothing he's heard before).

"No," Connor growls. "What did you do to me?"

"I just-" vision comes back slowly, and Connor squints at the woman in front of him. She's smaller than he is, blond and dressed in clothes that Connor doesn't even know how to describe. "It's a painkiller," she says. "That's it. You're not supposed to be awake-"

Connor gives her a look so angry that she stops talking immediately, and he asks, "Where am I?"

"Hospial," Lucy says. "They told me you were in an… accident." Her eyes drift over Connor's badly beaten body, and he's sure the same thought is going through both their minds- whatever's happened to him was definitely not an accident.

Connor makes a quick examination of his injuries. Ignoring the strange clothing he's for some reason wearing (everything around him is strange- the clothes and the furniture and the room itself), the first thing Connor notices is that his injuries aren't random. There are neat lines of burn marks running up and down his arms, across his torso, then down to his legs. Crisscrossing these in a sort of grid pattern are long scratches, some shallow and others deep, covering nearly all of his body. There are other injuries too, bruises and broken bones and he feels like he's going to throw up.

"I don't understand," Connor says, because it's the only thought in his mind right now- besides all the injuries, there's something else wrong with his body. It's young, decades younger than it should be, and smaller and paler and just wrong. It doesn't make _sense_. And more than anything- Connor frowns at the unfamiliar marking on his left wrist, the only part of his body not covered in injuries. It's shaped like a compass, and actually _moves _slightly as he watches. "What is this?" he whispers.

"I-" the woman looks nervous, and moves to the door. "I should go."

"No, wait!" Connor says, and he's ashamed of the way his voice breaks. "Who are you?" He doesn't know why it's important to know, but he's alone in a place that doesn't make sense, in a body that shouldn't be his, and he just wants to know that he's not alone, no matter how illusionary the knowledge might turn out to be.

"My name's Lucy," she says, and flees the room as quickly as she can.

-/-

Haytham is in Vidic's office when a woman in her late twenties comes running along the hall to meet the pair. "He's awake," she says, her voice breathless, and Haytham doesn't have to ask who she's talking about.

"That's not possible," Vidic says dismissively. "He's on enough drugs to keep him knocked out for weeks-"

"I'm telling you," the woman says. "He's awake and he's in pain and-"

Haytham turns on Vidic, ignoring whatever else the woman was about to say. "You told me he wouldn't be awake to feel any of this," he growls, shoving Vidic up against the closest wall.

Vidic glares at Haytham, and hisses in a voice so low that no one other than Haytham can hear him- "You're the one that agreed to have your own son tortured," he says. "Don't pretend like this is my fault."

Haytham pushes the doctor away, because it's the truth and he knows and he hates himself for it. "We needed to know if it was possible," he says. "Connor was our strongest candidate." The words sound hollow to his own ears, but they're all he has to justify to himself what he's done.

Vidic gives Haytham what he probably imagines is a comforting pat on the shoulder. In reality, it comes off as mostly condescending, and it takes all of Haytham's self-control to keep himself from punching the doctor in response. Vidic turns back to the woman, who is watching them with wide eyes. "How did he seem, Miss Stillman?"

"Confused," Stillman says. "Like he didn't know where he was. Or- or _who _he was."

"Excellent," Vidic says, and turns dismissively. "That will be all."

Haytham follows Vidic down a maze of halls until they get to a section of the hospital that is much quieter than the places they've passed through on the way there. The doctors and nurses here lack the urgency Haytham's seen elsewhere, and the few visitors keep quiet and spend a lot of time staring at the floor. Haytham doesn't need to ask to know that this is the ward where people come to die.

Connor has a room of his own at the end of a long hall. There's a sturdy lock on the door, and no windows. The industrial light bulb that hangs from the ceiling paints the room into a patchwork of crisp white light and dark shadow.

Connor's lying on the room's only bed, wired up to a dozen or more machines, breathing with obvious effort, hands clenched into fists at his side. Haytham stops in the doorway, unwilling or unable to get any closer. When Vidic came to him to propose Connor be used as one of his subjects, Haytham had agreed on two conditions- that Connor would be kept comatose for the worst of it, and that he would never have to see what they did to him.

He knows that he's sentenced his son to death, but he never wanted Connor to suffer, and he never wanted to see it for himself.

Connor's eyes are closed when they enter the room, but he opens them as Vidic draws near to the bed. He stares at the man for a second, then turns his gaze on Haytham. His eyes flicker unnervingly between their normal color and an almost golden shade that seem to glow. But it's not the color of his eyes that frightens Haytham.

The person looking out at him through Connor's eyes is not his son. Haytham shudders and stares back at this boy he doesn't know, because he can't bring himself to look away. Connor- or whoever it is- narrows his eyes and a moment later Haytham's on his back, fighting for his life as the sound of medical monitors screaming warnings echoes around the tiny room- Connor must have disconnected himself from the machines when he moved. Haytham barely notices this though, because even as injured and obviously disoriented as Connor is, he's still winning.

Later, Haytham will realize that he has Connor's injuries to thank for his own survival, because when Connor stumbles and passes out, it's due to exertion and blood loss more than any action on Haytham's part.

"You're out of practice," Vidic says as he and Haytham manhandle Connor back onto the bed.

Haytham only grunts in response- years ago he had operated as a field agent for the templars, but after Connor came to live with him, Haytham switched to operating more on the business side of the organization. It was a move that was supposed to keep both of them safe, but that was before the Phoenix Project.

"I'll see about getting him restrained before he wakes up again," Vidic says, and when Haytham turns to look at him, he sees the man is smiling. "But I think his reaction is a good sign."

"Do you?" Haytham asks. A thin trickle of blood from a fresh cut on his forehead drips slowly down his face, and Haytham wipes it impatiently away.

"Well, not for you, obviously." Vidic waves away Connor's attack on Haytham as though it were nothing. "But in a more general sense, it is a very good thing." He moves in closer to Connor, starts reconnecting him to the machinery. "I never met your son before we brought him in as a subject, but I assume this wasn't normal behavior for him?"

"No," says Haytham. Connor had never been a violent kid- he'd been in a few fights when he was younger, right after his mother died, but he'd grown out of it quickly. Since then, he'd had no trouble staying away from violence because he had no _need _to be violent.

"Regretting your decision?" Vidic asks, and Haytham realizes he's been staring at Connor in silence for several seconds.

Of course he is, but Haytham's not fool enough to admit that to Vidic. Instead, he says, "So tell me how my son attacking me is good news for your experiment."

"He never would have reacted like that before the procedure," Vidic says. Haytham assumes that by 'procedure', he means 'torture'. "He would have neither the inclination nor the skillset. I realize you haven't been active in the field in over a decade, but you should have been able to fight off an untrained boy."

"That's true." Haytham frowns. At the time, he'd been too surprised to note the way Connor moved when he attacked, but now that he thinks over it again, it's obvious that Connor had moved as though he knew what he was doing, as though he'd been trained at some point, and had put that training into practice. Many times, if Haytham was to hazard a guess.

"We may have achieved full personality transfer," Vidic says, and his eyes are alight with excitement. "I hadn't expected this to happen so soon, to be honest- I thought we might get a few tendencies and maybe some memories but-" he shakes his head, as though in awe over his own skills. "It's very likely that when Connor wakes up, there will be a complete person living in his head- it won't be Connor, but whoever he was in a past life."

"And why would he attack me?" Haytham asks.

"Clearly he was upset to wake up and find himself injured, in a strange place, and surrounded by strangers," Vidic says. "Perhaps he was a violent man."

Haytham starts to argue the term man (Connor is sixteen, and therefore still a boy), but then remembers the Phoenix Project was designed to implant the entire life of a person into their modern day incarnation- most likely, whoever is now inhabiting Connor's body is a fully grown man.

He presses his earlier point instead. "But why me?" he asks. "He saw both you and that Stillman woman first."

Vidic only shrugs. "Possibly you remind him of someone from his first life," he says. "Apparently someone he did not like very much."

After that, Haytham leaves Vidic alone with his subject. He can't take much more of this, at least not today. Maybe not ever.


	11. Bleeding and Broken 3

The room is weirdly silent as Desmond dresses in street clothes and prepares to leave the hospital. His arm is healed enough for him to be officially discharged, and the hospital staff haven't been too gentle in letting him know his bed could be better used by someone with actual insurance coverage. It feels weird to be leaving, though- he doesn't have anywhere to go or anyone to meet up with. In some ways, he's more alone than he was on the day he left the Farm when he was sixteen. And in other ways…

Three feet out of the room, Desmond runs- almost literally- into Lucy.

In other ways, he has almost too many people around him, confusing people that he doesn't know how to deal with. "You okay, Luce?"

"Desmond, I-" she looks troubled and pale, and Desmond can see she's trembling slightly. Then she takes a deep breath and collects herself. "It's nothing. I just wanted to come see you before you left."

It's obviously not nothing, though, and Desmond frowns. "Really?" From anyone else, he would have let the it slide, but he can't stand being lied to by Lucy anymore. He was fooled by her once, and it ended with Lucy dead and Desmond in a coma. This Lucy is different- she doesn't know how to lie as well, and Desmond's determined not to let anything like that happen a second time.

"I can't tell you," Lucy says quietly. "I'd be out of a job."

"I'm just worried," Desmond says, and gently pulls her left arm toward him. The circinus is still there, dark and strong, pointed straight at his heart. "You told me this means we're soulmates," he says. "Can't you tell me what's wrong?"

Lucy doesn't answer directly. Instead, she runs the fingers of her other hand over the marks and says, almost to herself- "He didn't know what it was, either."

"Who didn't?" Desmond asks.

Lucy looks up from her wrist, and Desmond can see a change come over her face as it hardens in determination. "Fine," she says. "But not here. Come with me."

"Where are we going?"

"I need you to see for yourself," Lucy says. "I…" she shakes her head. "I can't believe it myself, I need… You have to see it, too."

And she looks so worried that Desmond doesn't argue, just follows Lucy as she leads him down a maze of hallways and staircases. He gets the idea they're not taking the fastest way to wherever they're going, that she's trying to avoid someone, and Desmond realizes that whatever Lucy's going to show him is really bad news.

And then- they're there. "This is mostly terminal patients," Lucy explains, her voice barely a whisper. "Long term care, but no real chance of recovery."

"What are we doing here?" Desmond asks. "Is this about Kadar?"

Lucy shakes his head. "He's still in ICU," she says. "But yesterday Vidic- he's the doctor in charge of Kadar's case, actually, kind of a jerk-"

Desmond nods like he doesn't already know this, and tries not to dwell on Kadar being under the care of someone like that.

"At least I thought he was a jerk," Lucy corrects herself. "But now… Desmond, he asked me to do something really bad. It's…" she shakes her head, opens a door at the end of the hall. "Look."

Desmond walks in slowly, not sure what to expect- and almost immediately, his eyes fall on the kid in the room's only bed. The boy is handcuffed to the bed, and his body is thin, and covered with a horrifying amount of injuries, but Desmond recognizes him anyway.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton," he breathes. "Connor."

"Wait," Lucy says. "You know him?"

At the same moment, Connor opens his eyes and turns to look at the pair of them. He looks almost delirious, presumably from the pain of his dozens of injuries, but his eyes are a bright golden shade that Desmond recognizes as eagle vision. After a second the color fades, and Connor shakes his head in pain. _"How do you know my name?" _he asks in his own language, in a voice that is raspy and hoarse.

_"I've… heard of you," _Desmond says in the same tongue, because he doesn't think Connor will be able to follow the story of the animus right now. And anyway- he's not sure which version of Connor this is. According to Lucy he doesn't recognize circinus, and Desmond thinks that's a sign he's the Connor from the past. On the other hand, maybe it's better to just avoid making assumptions for now. _"What are you doing here?"_

_"I don't know," _Connor says, and Desmond can tell it's difficult for him to admit.

_"Who did this to you?"_

This time there's no hesitation. _"My father," _Connor growls.

"Desmond!" Lucy hisses. "Vidic's coming!"

"Alright," Desmond says, and turns back to Connor. He switches back to English, so Lucy will understand as well. "I can't do anything for you right now, but as soon as I can, I'll be back, with friends, and we're going to get you out."

"How do I know I can trust you?" Connor asks.

Desmond hesitates for just a fraction of a second, glancing at Lucy, before saying, "Nothing is true-"

"Everything is permitted." Connor closes his eyes in something that might be relief, and lets his head sink back onto the thin hospital pillow. "I'll be here," he says, and half smiles. "It's not like I have anywhere else to go."

They leave the room in silence, and to her credit, Lucy waits until they're safely away from Connor's room before rounding on Desmond. "Who is he?" she demands. "How do you know him?"

"I can't tell you," says Desmond. She turns her frown on him, abruptly angry.

"Bull," she snaps. "I have no idea what's going on here, everyone's lying to me, and my boss wants me to help hide some tortured kid for him. I want to know what's going on, and I want to know _now_."

She looks determined, but that only makes Desmond more convinced that he's not going to tell her. He's just… not ready to trust Lucy yet. Not after what happened last time.

"Maybe later," he says instead. "I'm sorry, Lucy."

-/-

She watches Desmond as he turns and walks away, frustrated and disappointed in equal measure. There's something big going on here, something huge and mysterious and terrible, and Lucy's afraid that she's been caught up in the middle of it. She doesn't know what has her more afraid- Connor and his injuries and the obvious way Vidic's covering it all up, or Desmond and his secrets, or Altair and Malik and whatever's going on with Kadar.

The only thing Lucy knows for sure right now is that she is very, very afraid.

She does her best to hide the fear for the rest of the day- she takes care of her normal business, talks with her coworkers, and does everything she can to avoid Vidic. She doesn't see him, and he doesn't come around looking for her. By the time she's ready to go home at the end of the day, it comes as a huge relief.

Except…

Something's still bothering her, and that something is Kadar. He wasn't expected to last through the previous night, and Lucy can't help wondering what happened to him. She hopes he made it, although honestly, her expectations aren't high.

She goes to check on him anyway.

She heads down to ICU, trying to pretend that the last time she came here, it wasn't to help three people break in. Kadar's still there, looking actually a little better than he did the night before. Lucy watches him for a while, listens to the reassuring beep of monitors, feeling relieved that at least something is going right.

It's not until she turns around to leave that she realizes she's not alone in the room, although how Vidic managed to get in without her hearing him is a mystery. He's just standing there, watching her, a look on his face that Lucy doesn't much like.

"What are you doing here, Miss Stillman?" he asks, and Lucy feels her brain freeze up. She can't think of anything to say other than the truth, and to her horror, that's what comes tumbling out of her mouth. The only thing she leaves out is bringing Desmond to see Connor, because it doesn't take a lot of imagination to figure out how _that _would go over. Vidic listens in utter silence, but as Lucy describes last night's visit to ICU and Malik's reaction to seeing Kadar, Vidic's eyes suddenly light up like Christmas has come early.

Finally the flood of words dries up and Lucy waits, panting slightly, to see what he's going to say. Part of her can't believe that she's just told all this to the man who's keeping a kid locked up. Then again, she doesn't know anything about what's going on, and Desmond's made it pretty clear that he's not going to tell her anything. Maybe Vidic, at least, can answer some of her questions.

But he doesn't. Instead, Vidic gives the still unconscious Kadar a speculative look, one that reminds Lucy uncomfortably of the way a shark would look at its next meal. "I need you to set up a space for him in the same room as Connor," Vidic says, not taking his eyes off the boy's still form.

"What for?" Lucy asks. There's a cold feeling starting to grow in her gut, like it's been filled up with ice.

"We're just relocating him," Vidic says. "It will be easier to keep an eye on both of them if they're in the same place."

Lucy gives Kadar a doubtful look, mentally comparing him to Connor- it's hard to imagine what the two of them could have in common that would make so interested. "Won't people want to know where he is?" she asks, gesturing around the room, at the flowers and get well soon cards that show someone's been visiting the boy.

"You're right," Vidic says, like the thought hasn't even occurred to him. "I'll fill out a death certificate as soon as he's been moved."

"You mean-" Lucy can't finish the thought.

Vidic laughs scornfully. "We're not going to kill him, Miss Stillman," he says. "In fact, you should feel proud of what you've done here today." Lucy _doesn't _feel proud, though- if anything, she feels disgusted with herself, and that feeling only intensifies as Vidic puts a hand on her shoulder. She tries to ignore the way his touch makes her skin crawl. "If you hadn't told me what you saw, he might not have lived. But now we need him, so he won't be allowed to die. Not until we're done with him, anyway."

"I-"

"His brother," Vidic says, speaking right over Lucy's protest. "What state would you say his mind was in the last time you saw him?"

"Traumatized," Lucy says. "He wasn't talking to anyone. I don't think he even knew where he was."

"Pity," Vidic says. "We could have used another subject, but if the mind is damaged…" he shrugs. "Useless."

He might be talking about the weather for all the human feeling Lucy can hear in his voice, and that is the exact moment that she realizes she's made a terrible mistake in trusting Vidic. He's staring at Kadar again with an expression that makes Lucy worry the man's going to eat him, and she turns to leave the room.

"Miss Stillman," Vidic calls, just as she reaches the door.

"Yes?"

"If you tell anyone about any of this, I don't think I need to tell you how badly things will go for you."

Lucy feels her mouth open, but there's nothing she can say to that. So instead she leaves, as quickly as she can, before she has to hear whatever horrible words he's going to say next.


	12. Pain and Promises 2

Connor spends a lot of time over the next few days drifting in and out of consciousness. His body and his mind feel tired and heavy, and after a while Connor realizes the needle in his arm is pumping some kind of drug into his body that keeps him under most of the time, he doesn't even have the energy to force himself to pull it out.

When he's awake, the world has a surreal quality to it that Connor doesn't think is entirely thanks to the drugs. Everything around him is strange and most of it, he can't even recognize. From time to time, people move around him- the woman Lucy is there a lot, looking worried and stressed. There's another bed in the room with him now too, but Connor can't tell anything about the person in it, and can't really bring himself to care. He doesn't see his father again, which is good news, but he doesn't see Desmond either, which worries him. As injured as he is now, Connor knows he doesn't have a chance of escaping this place without help.

Time blurs together, and when they finally pull the needle out, Connor has no idea how long he's been lying in the room, only that it's been long enough for the worst of his injuries to start healing. At least enough that he's not overwhelmed by pain without the drugs.

It takes a while for the last of the drugs to fade away even after they pull the needle out, and Connor is alone in the room when he finally wakes completely, for the first time in a long time. He gets up- or at least tries to. His arms and legs are strapped to the bed, so that the best he can manage is an uncomfortable position halfway between sitting and lying on the bed.

For a minute he just stays like that, not sure what to do next. He has no frame of reference for this situation, and his body- much as he hates to admit it- isn't as strong as the one he's used to. For now, he's helpless.

All he can do is take in his surroundings, hoping that something will jump out at him as helpful- but for the most part, everything he sees just makes him more confused. He's just turned his attention to the bed on the other side of the room (there's a kid lying in it, looking battered and broken but he at least looks like he's just sleeping, and not unconscious or drugged) when the door opens and a man steps through.

Connor looks him over, first with his normal sight and then- after some effort- with his eagle vision. It's a lot more difficult than it used to be, and Connor has to let it fade away after only a second or two. That's all he needs to see that the man in front of him is glowing a vivid red, however, and he feels his body tense. He's weak and confused and still a little blurry from the drugs, but he'll fight if he has to.

"Good morning," the man says, when Connor doesn't speak. His voice is strange- English, definitely, but somehow different from what Connor's used to hearing. "Or I suppose I should say afternoon." Still Connor says nothing, so he pulls up a chair and sits between Connor's bed and the strangers, just far enough away that Connor's strapped down hands can't reach him. "I suppose you're wondering what you're doing here," he says, and Connor nods, a little grudgingly. At this point, he'll take information from an enemy rather than none at all.

"Well, I can tell you," says the man. "But I need you to answer some questions for me, first."

"No," Connor says. He has no intention of telling this man anything.

"To start with, I just need to know your name," the man says, as though Connor hadn't spoken at all. "And what you remember." It's such an unexpected question that Connor finds himself staring slack jawed at the man, who sighs. "Of course brain damage is an outcome we had considered," he says, apparently to himself, before addressing Connor again. This time, his voice is slower, as though speaking to an idiot or a small child. The sound of his voice grates on Connor, so that he finds himself gritting his teeth to keep from snapping in annoyance.

"How about this, then?" he asks. "I'll ask you questions, all you have to do is tell me if you remember or not?"

Connor almost tells him no again, when he realizes that the man is basically offering to tell him what's going on. Not that he really trusts him to speak the truth, but even a lie would be better than the nothing he knows now. "Fine," he says.

"Alright," the man says. "Let's start simple." He pulls out a thick file filled with papers along with a pen. "Your name is Connor Kenway-"

"I never used my father's surname," Connor interrupts, despite his own resolve not to give this man any information. It's not like he could get anything important from that, anyway.

"Really?" the man asks, raising his eyebrows. "Moving on, then- your father's name is Haytham Kenway."

"Yes."

"Your mother was a native of upstate New York, but she has been dead for over a decade."

It's a sore subject, and one Connor doesn't really want to think about, so he only nods.

"You've lived with your father since then-."

"No," Connor says, narrowing his eyes.

"You're sixteen years old," the man goes on, scribbling notes on his papers. "Born April 4, 1998."

"1998?" Connor repeats, before he can stop himself. He'd been born in _1756_, and he'd been twenty seven, not sixteen, before waking up in this place. "No, I-" He does the math in his head. "It's 2014?" He demands. Part of him wants to believe the man is lying to him, but it's hard to believe that the things he's seen and heard here could exist anywhere other than the future. Once the idea is in his head, Connor has a hard time getting it back out.

As Connor gets more confused, the man's smile grows wider, and his scribbling gets more excited. "You're a sophomore in high school," the man says. "4.0 GPA, planning to study aerospace engineering in a few years."

Not a single word of that makes sense to Connor, so he just stares at the man, completely overwhelmed, until a foot comes out of nowhere and hits the back of the man's head. He curses and springs to his feet, while Connor's attention shifts from him to the boy in the other bed. Apparently all the conversation's woken him, because his eyes open and one foot (the one he'd used to kick at the man) is hanging off the side of the bed. He laughs as the man curses, and says something obviously insulting. Connor doesn't recognize the language, much less the word, but his tone is fairly clear. The accompanying hand gesture also helps clarify things.

He grins at Connor as the man stomps from the room, still rubbing at the back of his head, and Connor manages half a smile back. Whoever this kid is, he apparently doesn't like the man much either, and so Connor has no problem with him.

-/-

The pile of paperwork Haytham has left to dig through before he leaves the office for the day is absolutely monumental, and he's distracted enough and tired enough that the words keep blurring together when he tries to read through them. He looks away for a minute, lost in thought, and then back at the pile. If anything, it looks even larger than before. Not for the first time, Haytham wishes Abstergo would join the rest of the world in the digital age- it is the twenty first century, and on days like this, just seeing the stack of work is enough to discourage him from starting.

Of course, there are reasons for keeping physical copies of everything instead of digital. Everything is written out by hand, nothing is allowed to leave the building, and there are no scanners, cameras, or even cell phones allowed for anyone but the most senior, trusted staff members. If the information on some of these documents were to somehow be leaked, it could be catastrophic.

The Phoenix Project, for instance. If anyone on the outside were to find out that the company was torturing subjects to bring out repressed genetic memories… reincarnations, really, of distant ancestors… it would go badly for everyone.

Torture. As always, the word makes Haytham feel slightly disgusted. Vidic's theory is that intense physical trauma would result in the ancestor's memories breaking through and overwhelming the person's conscious mind. So far, unfortunately, the man has a zero percent success rate. His subjects are more likely to drop dead than anything else. But the way things look now, Connor could well turn out to be his first success.

It's all Haytham's fault, really. When his son first came to him, dropped on his doorstep by a social worker with the news that his mother was dead, and Haytham was listed as his father… well, at first, Haytham hadn't believed her. It was only after the paternity test came back that he'd agreed to let Connor stay with him. He'd expected it to be something of a chore, looking after a child on his own, but Connor was smart and independent, and far from being a burden, he'd actually made Haytham's life better.

Haytham scowls down at the circinus on his arm, which at the moment is pointed at the filing cabinet in the corner of his office. Beyond that is the city, and, somewhere, the hospital where even now Connor is recovering from whatever Vidic's done to him. It's not exactly unheard of for a pair of soulmates to be a parent and child, but it is fairly unusual. In their case, however, Haytham can understand it. Before Connor, his life had been so much emptier.

He'd loved watching Connor grow up. Haytham's own childhood had been difficult- his father had died when he was young, and he'd been left in the care of family friends who gave him the training he needed to one day become a part of the templar order, but no love and little affection. Connor, though, although quiet and frequently brooding, had loved his father with all the enthusiasm of a child.

And then the dreams. Connor had always been prone to nightmares, and he'd complained periodically that he had trouble sleeping because of them. They hadn't gotten really bad until Connor was around ten or eleven, though. Those first nights when he woke up screaming, when Haytham had to hold him down to keep him from hurting himself, were terrifying, and Haytham had been at a loss as to what to do.

That's when he made the mistake of mentioning Connor's dreams to Vidic. The man was a templar, after all, and therefore trustworthy. And he was a doctor, although not a psychiatrist. Haytham couldn't remember anymore what he'd been thinking when he went to Vidic- maybe he'd just been hoping the man could point him to someone who could help. He absolutely had not expected to hear that Connor's dreams made him a perfect candidate for the Phoenix Project.

He'd fought, but in the end, Vidic had made it simple. He outranked Haytham, and so if he ordered Connor brought in for use in the project, Haytham- as a loyal templar- would see that it happened. If not, then Haytham clearly wasn't as loyal as he'd always pretended to be, and both he and Connor would be taken care of.

Simple. Right.

So Haytham had taken the coward's way out, choosing to save himself rather than fight for his son. At the time, it had seemed hopeless to try. They were going to get to Connor either way, and at least Haytham would be there for him, if he needed him. If he even wantshis help, after everything that had happened. Haytham had been assured that Connor would never hear of his involvement in the project, but the way Connor reacted in the hospital proved that to be a lie.

It's been nearly a week since that day, and so far Haytham hasn't worked up the courage to visit his son again.

His phone rings (he's near the top of Abstergo's chain of command, high enough to be trusted with his own phone, but not apparently high enough to save Connor from being tortured by a coworker) and Haytham glances at the caller ID before answering it.

It's Vidic, and Haytham answers the call so quickly he nearly fumbles the phone. "How did it go?" he asks, because he knows Vidic took Connor off the sedatives earlier today, and he should have woken up by now.

"Perfectly," Vidic says, and Haytham frowns. He knows that Vidic's idea of a perfect outcome to all this is very different from Haytham's. Vidic wants to see Connor wake up another person with new memories, and Haytham honestly just wants to turn back the clock and undo everything that's happened in the past few months. Starting with his fool idea of telling Vidic anything about his son.

Vidic takes Haytham's silence as a chance to keep talking. "The personality transfer seems to have been almost complete. He recognized his name and yours, which may indicate some residual memories of his life in the present- well either that, or one of his ancestors happened to share the same name. I think you'll agree that's unlikely." Vidic chuckles to himself.

_You know nothing_, Haytham thinks, almost derisively. Then he shakes his head- where had that thought come from?

"But he also had no idea what the year was," Vidic goes on. "I don't know how far back it is in his mind, but he looked like the twenty first century was something he'd never even heard of.

"And what else?" Haytham asks. He wants to know everything, every detail about this stranger his son has become.

"Unfortunately I had to end our interview early," Vidic admits.

"Why-"

Vidic interrupts him almost too quickly. "It doesn't matter," he snaps. "But I want you to be there for the next one."

"Why me?" Haytham asks. So far, Vidic's been pretty adamant about keeping Haytham as far removed as possible. Apparently there's too much of a chance that he'll get overly emotional.

"Connor wouldn't talk much to me," Vidic admits. "The only times he really said anything were when he was angry or surprised- and we've seen already that he gets very angry when you're around."

"I don't know," Haytham says. "It might be better if you were to keep me out of this entirely."

"You don't have a choice," says Vidic. "Be at my office tomorrow at noon." And with that he hangs up, leaving Haytham with his phone still pressed against his ear, listening to the silence on the other end.

**-/-**

**First, many apologies for the long delay in this story. I had finals, and then last week I moved from Illinois to New Jersey so it's been very busy here.**

**In story related news, enjoy some Kenway angst. **


	13. Past and Present 8

_Malik's ill when Altair returns to his bureau after Al Mualim's death. It's not serious, just a cold that will no doubt clear up on its own after a day or two. For now, though, he's sore and tired and his nose is a leaking, red mess._

_So of course that's the day Altair chooses to drop by for a surprise visit._

_"You look terrible," the man says as soon as he sees Malik._

_"What are you doing here?" Malik demands._

_Altair scowls. "I came to make sure everything here's still working alright after Al Mualim's death," he says, and Malik catches himself nodding. A change in leadership like the one the assassins are going through is bound to cause friction. "But it looks like I'll be taking care of you, instead."_

_"Altair-" Malik hates the way his face has gone red, and tries to tell himself it's just the fever._

_"You look like you're about to fall down and die," Altair says, exaggerating quite a bit in Malik's opinion._

_And that's when Malik realizes what's really going on here. "Novice," he says, because he knows it bothers Altair. "We both know this-" and he raises the stump of his left arm. "Was your fault. But like I told you already, you're not the same person you were then. You don't have to act like it's your fault every time I get a cold or stub my toe or something."_

_"Yes I do," Altair answers, and he refuses to listen to anything else Malik has to say. For the next few days, as Malik's health gets first worse and then, slowly, better, Altair is shockingly attentive, and even kind. Malik gets used to seeing him around the bureau, everywhere he goes, almost hovering at times. And every morning, when he wakes up-_

-/-

Altair is sitting next to his bed, waiting for him.

For a second, the modern world and the world of his dreams blur together so completely that Malik isn't sure if he's in Jerusalem or New York. Then he blinks, and the memory of the bureau fades away. Malik blinks and sits up in bed. For the past few days he's been completely out of it, disconnected from his surroundings, trying to deny what he already knows is true.

He's lived another life before this one. He still can't remember it, apart from bits and pieces, but he's fine with that. He doesn't really want to remember. What he already knows is painful enough, especially knowing that he's lost his brother- _again- _without ever really knowing him.

Malik tells himself it doesn't matter, because the man he is now never knew Kadar, and the man he used to be has had years to mourn his death. Centuries, maybe. Time is getting a little weirder, a little more relative. But it doesn't help, and so Malik swings his feet over the edge of the bed so that he's face to face with Altair, who's slouched in his chair asleep. He wakes at the sound of movement, and Malik watches his eyes roam over his face as he drags himself back to full wakefulness. "You look better," Altair says.

"And you look like shit," Malik says bluntly. "How long have you been here?"

"Couple of days," Altair says. "Lucy talked the nurses into letting me stay past visiting hours- I don't know why…" he frowns. "Actually she's been acting kind of strange lately."

"Don't you have anywhere else to be?" Malik asks. He realizes suddenly that he has no idea what Altair does in this century- where he works, what hobbies he has, who his friends are. He's not sure how to ask, either.

"Still don't want me around?" Altair asks. "Don't worry about it. I've only been here over the weekend. It's Monday now, in case you were wondering."

Malik nods, absentmindedly. Honestly he's completely lost track of the date. But he's done with small talk. "How's Kadar?" he asks.

"He…" Altair doesn't finish, and that's all the answer Malik needs.

"He's dead."

"Filed the death certificate the day after we went to see him," Altair says. "I'm sorry-"

But Malik doesn't want words right now. He wants- no, he needs comfort, and when the first sob bursts from him, involuntary and wet and horrible, Altair's already reaching for him. For a long time they sit there together. Altair ends up on the bed next to him, his arms wrapped around Malik as he buries his head in the man's shoulder and cries for a boy he's never met. Altair lets him keep at it as long as he needs to, and when Malik eventually pulls away, Altair doesn't say anything about his red eyes or the snot dripping from his nose.

"Promise me something," Malik says after a while. His voice is hoarse.

"What?" Altair asks.

"Don't make me remember," Malik says, so quietly he can barely hear his own words. "It hurts too much."

Altair speaks slowly when he answers. Eventually, he says, "I promise that I will not make you remember before you're ready."

"That's not what I asked for," Malik says.

"No," Altair agrees. "But it's all I'm willing to give."

-/-

He really does have school and responsibilities and the rest of his life to face, so Altair leaves Malik alone not long after he wakes. He feels slightly better seeing him awake and aware of his surroundings, but the memory of Malik sobbing into his shoulder is one Altair knows won't leave him anytime soon.

It rains most of the day, a heavy and oppressive downpour that makes everyone miserable and short tempered. It fits Altair's mood perfectly, and by the time he's struggled through (most of) the day's responsibilities, he wants nothing as much as he wants to head back to his shitty apartment and fall into bed for about twelve hours.

It's not in the cards, though, and Altair's only made it about halfway back to his place before he gets the uncomfortable feeling that someone's watching him, and he turns to glance over his shoulder. There's no one there, though, or at least no one that sticks out as obviously suspicious. Altair turns back around and suddenly there's Desmond, walking right next to him like he's been there all along.

"Funny," Altair says.

Desmond only shrugs. This isn't the first time they've met since the other man was discharged from the hospital, but they haven't seen each other in a couple of days now. "How's Malik?"

"He actually woke up this morning," Altair says. He doesn't mention Malik's decision to keep his memories locked away, because it's none of Desmond's business, and also because he hasn't quite figured out how to deal with it yet. "I told him about Kadar, but…"

"Sorry," Desmond says.

"I still feel like it was my fault," Altair mutters. It feels weird to be this open with someone he's only known for a few days, but if Desmond's story about the animus is true- and honestly, it's far from the most insane thing Altair's heard recently, so there's no reason to think he's lying- the man's actually been in his head. He'd get it.

"You weren't even involved in the accident," Desmond says. "It was just bad luck."

"But it happened exactly the same way as in Masyaf," Altair argues. "Malik lost his arm and Kadar was killed, just like last time. It's almost like the things we did back then is still affecting what happens to us now."

"That… is actually a good point," Desmond admits, and when Altair looks over at him, he's frowning. "I've been thinking about that, actually. At first I thought what you're going through was just some version of the bleeding effect. Basically what I had to do, only without an animus."

Altair's already shaking his head. "I don't think so," he says.

"Yea," Desmond agrees. "I changed my mind pretty quickly, because ancestral memories aren't going to explain why you look exactly the same as you did in Masyaf, or why you have the same name, especially here. I mean, how many other people have you ever met with your name?"

"None," Altair says.

"And it doesn't explain Malik's accident," Desmond goes on. "I think there's something more going on here. And if I had to guess, I'd say it has something to do with first civilization technology."

"Can it even do that?" Altair asks.

Desmond spreads his arms in a gesture of helpless confusion. "I don't know," he says. "I wouldn't doubt it, though- everything I've seen them do so far is something that seems impossible."

Altair nods. It's hard to argue with that. "So what do we do?" he asks.

Desmond doesn't answer for a long while. "I think the first step is to decide if we even _want _to do anything?"

"Of course," Altair says.

"Are you sure?" Desmond asks. "Because wherever and whatever this piece of Eden is, it's probably nowhere near here. And I don't think Malik will be ready to travel for a long time- going after it would mean leaving him behind."

"I don't think he'll want to come," Altair interrupts. He's thinking again of Malik's decision not to remember. "Alright, well… there's a research trip this summer to Masyaf- one of my professors is leading it, and I'm going to make sure I'm on it. Hopefully that will give us some idea of where to go next, and I'll only be away for a couple of months."

Desmond nods. "We need to worry about Connor, too," he says, and Altair remembers with a flash of guilt that the kid's still being held prisoner in the hospital. With his mind so occupied with his problems and Malik's, he hasn't had any time to think about him.

"I've been looking for a way in," Desmond says. "But every time I get near, there's templars on guard. They weren't there when I went in with Lucy, but now they've got their people everywhere. They're mixed in with the nurses, the other patients, the visitors- I mean, they must really think Connor's important to have that many people on him."

"Can you ask Lucy to help?" Altair asks, and watches Desmond shift uncomfortably. He knows that in the world Desmond remembers, Lucy was a templar and a traitor. But in this world, she shows up gray in eagle vision, and nothing they've seen of her shows she has any connection to either the templars or the assassins.

"I think she's mad at me," Desmond admits. "I'm… not very good with women."

"Oh." Altair isn't much better either, so he quickly changes the subject. "So what are we going to do about Connor?"

"Keep watching for an opening, I guess," Desmond says. "It's not ideal, but they can't have every option covered all the time. We'll get lucky eventually, and if we don't, then it's just a matter of waiting for Connor to recover enough to make a run for it, and we can fight our way in."

Altair nods. Under the circumstances, it's probably the best plan available. "And Connor's one of the other ancestors you met in the animus, right?"

"I don't know if 'met' is really the right word," Desmond says. "But yea. There was you, Ezio Auditore, Haytham Kenway, and then Connor- Ratonhnhaké:ton." He frowns. "And so far since I've been here, I've seen you and Connor, and Connor told me his father's the one who put him in the hospital, so I guess Haytham's here somewhere, too..."

Altair starts to nod, then frowns. "Wait- you said Kenway?"

"Yea," says Desmond. "Why?"

It could just be a coincidence, but Altair's started to lose his trust in coincidences. "Have I ever told you about my friend Edward?" he asks.


	14. Seas and Skies 1

It's only Monday, but Edward already has enough piled up work to keep him stuck in the library for most of the day. He's claimed an entire table to himself by the simple means of spreading the contents of his backpack over the entirety of its surface. One of the librarians keeps stalking past, glaring at his mess, but Edward ignores her and she doesn't actually say anything to him.

He's been there several hours already when he spots Altair and some guy Edward's never seen before at the other end of the library. They quickly spot him, and a minute later the two of them are sitting on the other side of the table.

"You are a hard man to find," Altair says, carefully clearing a space on the table in front of him.

"I've been here all day," Edward says.

"Ah." Altair nods in sudden understanding. "That makes sense, then. I didn't think to look in the library until we'd checked everywhere else."

"Ha ha," Edward says. "Who's your friend?"

"I'm Desmond," the stranger says, before Altair has a chance to say anything.

Edward looks him over, then glances back at Altair. "You look like you could be twins."

"Genetics," Altair says. "I have a question for you."

"Shoot," Edward says, closing his laptop. "I'm sick of working on this anyway."

"Are you related to anyone named Haytham?"

"No," says Edward, but slowly, and he can't deny that there's something familiar about the name. He tilts his head sideways and half closes his eyes, digging through memories of his first life that are still only half familiar. Suddenly his eyes fly open because he can't _believe _he forgot that. "I mean, yea. But not, um..." He glances at Desmond, because this really isn't something he wants to go into this in front of someone he doesn't know.

"Yes or no?" Altair asks. "Which one is it?"

"Yes like you were in your last life but no like you're not anymore?" Desmond asks.

Edward stares at him, then glowers at Altair. "I think I'm missing something here," he says. "How does he know about that?"

"It's a long story," Altair says. "I'll tell you later."

"But-"

Edward makes an exasperated noise, but so far Altair hasn't given him a reason not to trust him.

"So who's Haytham to you?" Altair asks.

"He's… my son," Edward says. He tries to sound casual, but can't stop himself from shaking a little as he says it. There are a lot of bad memories he hasn't figured out how to deal with yet, and a lot of other memories that he just hasn't had time to go through. So maybe it's not all that unlikely he hasn't remembered Haytham until now- but he still feels awful. "Why do you want to know?"

"I-" Desmond doesn't quite meet his eyes. "Well, he's here too."

"And…" there's no mistaking his tone. "Why is that bad?"

"The only reason we know he's here is because he put his kid in the hospital," Desmond says.

"What?" Edward's first instinct is to deny it, because that's not the way he remembers his son, but then he shakes his head and doesn't bother. The last time he saw Haytham, he was ten years old. Edward has no idea what kind of man Haytham grew up to be. Or what his life has been like in this century. Or which life he even remembers.

"This is so confusing," Edward mutters, and drops his head into his hands.

"Do you… do you want to talk about it?" Altair asks, and Edward shakes his head quickly.

"No," he says. "I mean, yes, but…" The skin on the inside of his wrist is pale from too much time spent indoors, and the circinus on it is so faint it's not even visible. Mary must be really far away. "There's someone else I need to talk to."

-/-

Mary's in Alaska when her cell rings, on her way up north to visit a town so isolated, it's only contact with the outside world is when the weather is warm, and tiny planes from farther south come by to deliver supplies.

"Damnit, Edward," she mutters, but picks up anyway. They haven't spoken in at least a decade, but they are technically soulmates (although she still has no idea why). "You have the worst timing," she says, instead of hello.

"Mary?"

"Of course. You called me, remember?" There's nothing but static on the other end, and Mary frowns. "Listen, if you have something to say, then say it, but if you're just calling to bother me, then hang up now. I have to be flying out of here in half an hour."

Edward waits a long time before answering, long enough that Mary starts to think about just hanging up on him. Then he says- "Tell me about yourself."

"What?"

"I want to know who you are this time around," Edward says. "I want to know how much a person can change."

"Are you drunk?" Mary asks. "What do you mean, 'this time'?"

"No," Edward says. "I'm not drunk, I just… want to talk." And maybe it's just the shitty cell reception up here, but his voice sounds tiny and lost in her ear.

"Hey Read!" Someone calls, and Mary glances over her shoulder to see one of the runway guys pointedly jabbing at their watch. "You ready to go?"

"I-" Mary glances at her phone, then at the man, then shakes her head. "I can't do it."

"What?" He frowns. "Why not."

"Weather," Mary says.

"It's perfect weather for flying!"

"Nah," Mary says, grinning a little. It'll be worth dealing with Edward just for the confused expression on the man's face. "There's a storm coming in."

"But-"

"I'll fly out tomorrow," Mary says, and heads inside.

"Mary?" Edward asks.

"I'm still here, Kenway. Keep your pants on. What did you want to know?"

"Everything," Edward says.

"Way to narrow it down," Mary says. "Alright, well- the last time we saw eachother was high school, right? You were a freshman, I was a sophomore-"

"Then my family moved, yea," Edward says. "I know that part." He sounds annoyed, and a little more animated, which is reassuring.

"Alright, um…" She looks around, and the abandoned plane on the runway seems the most obvious place to start. "I got my pilot's license a couple years ago. Always wanted to fly, now I do." Edward doesn't say anything, so she sighs and goes on. "I'm in Alaska now, but I'll probably be out by the end of the month. I don't know where I'll go next. I like to move around a lot, so- I don't know. Maybe I'll go out east somewhere. Or west, or south- I don't know. Somewhere without snow, hopefully."

"Ever been to the Caribbean?" Edward asks.

"Where are you, Edward?" Mary asks, instead of answering his question. She doesn't want to talk about the Caribbean. It reminds her too much of her nightmares…

"New York," Edward says. "I'm getting my master's in archeology."

"You're getting a master's degree?" Mary laughs. "That's- what? Six whole years at school?"

"Why does everyone always act so surprised?" Edward asks.

"Oh, I don't know," says Mary. "Maybe because you've never been interested in anything that takes actual effort? Or have you actually grown up since I saw you last?"

"Mary," Edward says. "You would not believe the amount of growing up I've done in the past week."

"Edward…" She frowns, because there's something about his voice that sounds different from before, a seriousness that she wouldn't have expected from him. "Edward, what's wrong?" she asks. "Seriously. Tell me."

"I can't tell you."

"Well you can't just call me up and have a conversation like this one and not tell me why!" Mary snaps.

"Do you ever have dreams?" Edward asks.

"Everyone has dreams."

"Weird dreams," Edward says. "Dreams that seem like memories, but aren't-"

"No," Mary lies. Something digs into her palm, and she realizes that she's holding her phone far too tightly. It takes a real effort to loosen her grip, far more than it should have. But she doesn't want to think about the nightmares that trouble her all too frequently.

Edward goes on like he doesn't even hear her. "Am I ever in them?"

Mary shakes her head, tries to make a joke out of it. "Are you asking me if you're the man of my dreams?"

"You should pay attention to them," Edward says, and hangs up. Mary stares at the phone and tries to comfort herself that at least he sounds happier. If slightly more crazy.

Only it doesn't comfort her at all, and Mary finds herself wondering if it might not be time to pay New York a visit. Not that she's worried about Edward- of course not. He's a fully grown man, he can take care of himself. Even if he does sound odd. Of course she's not worried, there is no reason to worry.

She worries anyway.


	15. Pain and Promises 3

The boy in the other bed tells Connor his name is Kadar. He tells him in French that's only a little less broken than Connor's own, because it's the only language they have in common. It's difficult to communicate, especially because the French that Kadar speaks sounds old fashioned- ancient, really- to Connor, but they manage. It's not like they have any other choice.

Cautiously, they get to know each other. Kadar doesn't have any more of an idea where they are than Connor does, maybe less. His last memory before waking up here is from some time in the twelfth century. So he doesn't exactly know anything that can help them, but Connor's still grateful not to be alone.

Kadar is as badly hurt as Connor, although his injuries seem like they were probably an accident. They don't have the same deliberate quality as the ones covering Connor. Somehow, though, Kadar manages to keep smiling. It's not that he doesn't seem to mind being stuck in the future, strapped to a bed, recovering from injuries bad enough that Connor can't believe he's still alive. He's just not ready to give up yet, and even if he can't really fight back, he'll do what he can.

Which is probably why the first thing he did when he woke up was kick the man interrogating Connor in the back of the head. That man- Vidic- still hasn't come back, incidentally, and it's Lucy who comes in to put straps on his arms and legs so he can't try it again.

They're in the middle of a conversation, trying to figure out what to do and where to go, when and if they both recover enough to actually move, when the door to their room opens for the first time in hours. Connor tenses, turning to see who it is this time.

And to his

"Hello, Connor," Haytham says.

Connor takes a deep breath, trying to get himself under control. The last time Haytham was in this room, Connor had only just woken up the first time. He'd been confused (or more confused, anyway), and he'd let himself give into the fear and anger. This time, he's determined to at least get some answers, and besides, there's a tiny, foreign part of him that feels relief when Haytham comes in- relief and comfort and safety. It doesn't make sense, and Connor does his best to ignore the unwanted feelings for now.

"What are you doing here?" Connor asks.

_"Do you know him?" _Kadar adds from the other side of the room.

_"He's my father," _Connor says, without taking his eyes off Haytham.

"What is that?" Haytham asks, ignoring Connor's question. "French?"

"Yes."

"Where did you pick that up?" Haytham's tone is completely casual, the complete opposite of Connor's terse, suspicious one. Only the way he stays well back from Connor's bed betrays the fact that he's not as comfortable here as he pretends.

Connor doesn't answer- he doesn't want to bring any of his friends into this conversation, and most of the French he knows is learned from Norris and Stephane. Instead, he studies his father in silence.

He hasn't noticed before now, but Haytham looks different than how Connor remembers him. The man's face looks exactly the same, but he holds himself differently. He's more relaxed, and his expression is less guarded. His hair is cut relatively short, instead of grown long and tied back. The clothes he's wearing are drastically different, but then, no one Connor's seen since waking up has been wearing clothes that make sense to him.

"Connor," Haytham says, and Connor realizes he'd been saying something. "Are you listening to me?"

"No." He frowns. "What are you doing here?"

Haytham's eyebrows go up. "I'm here to visit my son," he says.

"Really?" Connor asks, doubtful.

"And ask you some questions," Haytham admits.

Connor glares at him as best he can while tied to a bed. "No," he says. "I'm not answering any of your questions. I don't know what's going on or where I am." Right now, he's a lot more interested in getting answers of his own than he is in providing them. "I'm not just going to sit here and answer your questions when I don't even know how or why I'm here."

Haytham considers this, then nods like he's come to a decision. "Alright," he says. "I'll tell you why you're here." Connor's about to protest that he has no reason to trust anything he hears, but Haytham doesn't give him the chance. "I'm not going to get any useful information from you if you don't have the context to answer my questions, anyway."

He nods, cautiously, and Haytham relaxes against the wall, arms folded, clearly preparing to lecture at length. "It's called the Phoenix Project," he says. "The idea was formed around the concept of genetic memories."

"Genetic?" Connor interrupts, because he's never heard the word before.

"Inherited, basically," Haytham explains without missing a beat. "The same way a parent can pass on eye color or height to their children. Of course, those are both fairly obvious just from looking at a person, while genetic memories can usually on be accessed under certain… specific stimuli."

"Like what?"

"Some people, for whatever reason, have genetic memories that are abnormally strong. They are able to view their ancestor's life through their dreams, and in many cases the genetic memories become just as strong as the real ones. The purpose of the Phoenix Project is to force those memories into the dominant position in the mind, replacing the person's actual memories.

"The project went through a lot of different methods, trying to achieve this. I know they tried dream therapy and hypnotism, but I was never involved too deeply in the project myself, so all I know is that the method they eventually found to be most effective was… physical."

Connor glances down at the marks covering his body. Across the room, Haytham is clearly doing his best to look anywhere else. "Torture," Connor says, and Haytham doesn't answer. "So I'm just… dead memories left in someone's head?"

"Yes," Haytham says bluntly.

For a minute, Connor struggles to wrap his mind around this, but it's not easy. Finally he gives up, and asks, "What happened to him?"

"Who?"

"The- whoever's body this is. His memories and mind and- and everything."

Haytham looks visibly upset, and doesn't say anything. It's enough of an answer for Connor, though, who's starting to put the pieces together. "He's gone?"

"You might have flashes of memory from him," Haytham says. "But yes. He's gone."

Connor's hands clench into fists, and he feels himself start to strain against the straps tying him down. "How could you do that?" he demands. "I'm only here because I killed some kid that's never done anything to me?" He's angry, and the words come pouring out of him before he can stop them. "You never change, do you? You were exactly the same, no matter what century it happens to be."

"You don't know me at all," Haytham snaps.

"I know you better than you think," Connor says. "Better than _he _ever did." He thinks of the flashes of comfort and safety he couldn't explain when Haytham first walked in the room. He thinks he can guess where they came from now, and the knowledge makes him feel sick. They're from whoever he used to be. The person he doesn't remember. "He never know you betrayed him, did you? That you were the reason they tortured him to death?"

He doesn't have any real proof that Haytham's the one that put him here, but the man's reaction more or less confirms it. He stares at Connor for a very long time, then turns and walks out of the room without another word. He leaves Connor feeling more alone than ever, with a slowly calming anger and an unwelcome sense of loss.

-/-

Haytham goes straight up to Vidic's office after leaving Connor's room. He's planning to tell Vidic that this isn't going to happen, that he didn't get any information out of Connor and doesn't want to go back and try again. Listening to someone else speaking in his son's voice was the worst experience of Haytham's life. That would have been awful if they'd been talking about something normal, but the accusations coming from Connor's mouth had been-

Well, they'd been awful. And the worst part is that his accusations were true. Connor- _his _Connor- had trusted him right up until the day Abstergo took him away to be tortured. He never knew it was Haytham's that told Vidic about his dreams.

When he gets to Vidic's office, though, he finds the man excitedly pacing back and forth, and not at all in a mood to hear any bad news. "Did you find anything useful?" he asks.

"No," Haytham says. "And I need to talk to you about that, actually-"

"Doesn't matter," Vidic interrupts. "You can try again later."

"I'd really-"

Again, Vidic talks right over him. "And I think I've made a breakthrough on my end."

That catches Haytham off guard, because he hadn't been aware that Vidic was doing anything. "What?"

"I know who he is," Vidic says.

"How?" Haytham asks, his earlier determination to get pulled off the job is all but gone now- he's very interested to know the name of the man in his son's body.

"One of the few pieces of information I got out of him when he first woke up was his name," Vidic says.

"You told me he said his name was Connor," Haytham says. "I assumed it was just whatever's left of my son." Not the stranger's actual name.

"I had the same thought," Vidic says. "But he also said he never used your last name."

"That doesn't make sense," Haytham says. "He took the name Kenway as soon as he moved in with me."

"Which is why I realized his name actually _is _Connor," Vidic says. "I started to do some digging, and finally got a match from the eighteenth century."

"How did you manage to do that?" Haytham asks. "They didn't exactly keep perfect records back then."

"Templar database," Vidic says carelessly. "We have records of every significant member of the order going back to the sixteen hundreds."

"So- this Connor was a templar?" Haytham asks.

"Exactly the opposite," Vidic snorts. "He was- _is-_ an assassin. A good one. Honestly, with the amount of influence he had during the Revolutionary War, I'm surprised he didn't manage to make it into the history books."

"An assassin," Haytham repeats, closing his eyes. He's done his best to keep Connor out of templar business, and now he's invited a damned assassin into his head. "What was an assassin doing in the templar database?"

"His father was a templar," Vidic says, and his voice is way too casual. The man's never been a good actor. "Name of Haytham Kenway."

"Shit," Haytham says, and closes his eyes. "Don't play games with me, Vidic. I'm not in the mood."

"I'm not playing games," Vidic says. "But it is a rather large coincidence, isn't it?" He looks sideways at Haytham and smiles. "You haven't been having dreams, have you?"

"No," Haytham says. "I never have."

But he's not thinking about dreams or genetic memories right now. He's thinking about something Connor said earlier.

_"You never change, do you?"_


	16. Pain and Promises 4

_He dreams of the other Connor, the one he could have been if he'd been born three hundred years later. If things had been different, this could have been his life, but it's not. Connor is content to just let the memory-dream play itself out, a passenger his own body. He wants to know who this kid is, because the way he's basically been sentenced to death- tortured to within an inch of insanity, so that his mind and memories scatter into nonexistence, isn't fair. And even if these are just the last, fading memories of a mind that's already gone, Connor decides he owes the kid this much, at least._

_He remembers being six years old, and small, and scared. He's only just come to live with his dad- his mom's been dead less than six months. Cancer. He doesn't know what that means, really, only that it killed her and he hates it because she loved him and now she's gone forever._

_Everything about his dad's house is strange. It's too big and too clean and he doesn't know how he fits into it, yet. So when the nightmares come back to haunt him, Connor wanders the house, the blanket from his bed wrapped around his shoulders, trying to find… he's not sure what he's trying to find. Before his mom died, she used to know what to do when he had the nightmares. She'd find him crying in bed, and hold him close until the tears dried up and the memories faded._

_He can't even imagine going to his dad for comfort._

_It's still dark when he hears his dad wake up. By this point, Connor's sitting cross legged on the kitchen floor, still wrapped in his blanket, staring out the glass door, watching the darkness. He doesn't move, just listens to the sound of the shower turning on, and then off again a while later. Half an hour or so after that, just as the sun is starting to rise, Haytham comes into the kitchen, already dressed for work._

_In the doorway, he stops. "Connor? What are you doing up so early?"_

_"Bad dreams," Connor whispers, and to his surprise, he feels his dad sit down next to him. Connor leans toward him, because he's so tired he can barely sit up on his own. "I dreamed about mom. She was on fire. It was… scary." Only it had been more than scary, but Connor doesn't have the words to explain the panic and helplessness he'd felt. His mother had burned alive, and he couldn't do anything but watch. The smell is still strong in his nose, so Connor tries to breathe through his mouth as much as he can. It doesn't help._

_"Dad…" Connor whimpers, and feels tears start in his eyes. He's not expecting an answer, and he doesn't get one. His dad isn't very good at comforting speeches. But he's a man of action, and a moment later Connor feels strong arms wrap around him, solid and steady. They stay like that for a long time, until finally his dad does say something._

_"Do you know what this is?" He pulls back his sleeve, and Connor wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, squinting at his dad's wrist. _

_"Circle something," he says. It's something he's sort of known about for most of his life, but not something he's ever cared enough to question._

_"Circinus," his dad corrects, but gently. "It shows you the most important person in your life."_

_Connor holds his own arm up. It's dwarfed by his dad's larger, paler one, but the markings on it are the same. "Mine points to you," he says._

_"And mine points to you," his dad answers. "And that is why I will never let anything happen to you, alright?" He holds Connor close, and whispers- "I promise."_

_They stay that way for a long time, until Connor drifts off to sleep, still wrapped in the comfort of his father's arms. It's the first time since his mom's death that he's truly felt like he belongs anywhere._

-/-

When he wakes up, Connor's face is wet. He touches his cheeks, then stares at the damp fingers in disbelief. It's been a long time since he's cried, but there was something about the dream that draws him in, forces him into the feel of the moment, like it's all real.

_"Are you alright?" _Kadar asks.

_"I'm fine." _He's not. He's shaken and upset and suddenly he has these memories of being comforted by his father when he was a child and needed it most. And he has memories of being alone after his mother died, of needing someone and having no one. Of learning to be alone because there was no other choice. They can't both be true, but they _are_. Connor shudders and pushes the memories away until later, when he'll have time to deal with it.

The rest of the day passes quietly. Connor and Kadar are learning to talk more easily, adjusting to the differences in each other's languages. They don't quite touch on anything important, though, their shared vocabulary doesn't stretch far enough for that. They talk about all the small things, until Kadar, still recovering from his injuries, drifts off to sleep.

After that, Connor works on strengthening his eagle vision. The body he's in has the potential to use it, but absolutely no experience. It's not the only skill he'll have to eventually train back up the rest of his body is scrawny and weak, probably from the torture- but it's the only one he can work on now, while he's tied to the bed.

He tries to tell himself that he's practicing because it's a good skill to have, but he's never seen the point of lying to himself. The only reason he's practicing is so that the next time Haytham walks into the room, Connor will have some way to tell if he's an enemy or a friend.

-/-

Haytham's in the hospital cafeteria, eating a hurried meal and trying not to think about what he's putting in his mouth. Normally he would rather eat just about anywhere else in the world, but Vidic is insisting that he speak with Connor again as soon as possible, and with Vidic, 'as soon as possible' usually means 'five minutes ago'. So here he is, with no chance for real food, forcing the hospital slop down because he knows he won't have a chance to eat again for a while.

The cafeteria is crowded and noisy at this hour, but Haytham has been trained and he knows how to tell when someone's talking about him. He turns his attention to the conversation going on behind him. Three men, all young, early to mid-twenties, judging by their voices, but they're at an angle where Haytham just barely can't see without making it obvious that he's listening.

"That's him," one of them says.

"You're sure?" a second one asks.

"Positive."

"I don't know," says yet another voice. "It doesn't feel like a good idea."

"Are you nervous?" The second voice asks.

"What? No! Definitely not nervous. Why would I be nervous?"

"Just do it," the second voice says.

"What do I even say?"

"Make small talk. You're good at that. Make a new friend."

"Shit," the first voice says, emphatically, but a few seconds later, a boy- not really a boy, at least twenty, and probably a few years older- sits down across the table from him. He looks unhappy and his face is a little red. "Um- hi," he says. "Do you mind if I sit here? Only there's no empty tables."

It's true, and Haytham doesn't think he can turn the kid away without causing a scene. He doesn't have time for one now, so he nods. Besides- there's something more than a little strange about the conversation he's just overheard, and Haytham has nothing to look forward to but meeting with Vidic.

He glances across the table and examines the kid. Young, probably a college student, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. He's got a face that's completely unknown to him and achingly familiar at the same time. Haytham puts the feeling down to stress and lack of sleep, and looks him over in eagle vision. He's expecting to see either grey, meaning he's not important, or red, meaning he's an enemy. Instead, the kid shines an amazingly bright blue, as bright as anyone Haytham's ever seen, besides Connor.

Haytham lets his vision fade back to normal and tries to make his conversation sound casual. "What are you here for?" he asks.

"What?"

"What are you here for?" Haytham asks again. "It's a hospital, most people don't stop by just for fun."

"Oh. Visiting a friend- he's sick." The kid gnaws at his lower lip for a second. "My name's Edward, by the way."

"I-"

_It hits him then, out of nowhere, like a blow to the head. He's standing in a busy port somewhere, leaning against a stack of crates waiting to be loaded onto a nearby ship. The place smells- of animals, of unwashed men, of spices and foods and the ocean._

_"You're early," a voice says behind him, and Haytham has to stop himself from reacting on instinct. His blade is half drawn before he recognizes Connor's voice, and relaxes. Slightly. They've been working together for a while now, hunting down Church, sizing one another up, but it's not enough for Haytham to really trust his son yet. "The _Aquilla _won't be ready to leave for a few more hours."_

_"I know," Haytham says. "But I thought I would come down and watch. I like the docks."_

_"Really?" There's surprise in Connor's voice, which up until now has been careful and guarded. "I wouldn't have expected that."_

_Haytham nods. He's not planning to say anything else, but finds his mouth moving almost of its own accord. "My father was a sailor," he says. "He had a ship, a long time ago, before I was born. When I come here, I feel closer to him."_

_"What is he like?" Connor asks. "Your father?"_

_"Dead," Haytham says, curtly. "He was killed when I was ten years old."_

_Connor hesitates. "I'm sorry."_

_"Don't be," Haytham says. "It was a long time ago, and we have business to see to." He glances over his shoulder, sees Connor standing there, wearing an expression of intense stubbornness. Haytham can see he wants to press the issue, and to forestall the questions that are sure to come, he adds- "His name was Edward."_

"-have to go," Haytham says. He stands abruptly and gracelessly, hears his chair fall to the floor behind him.

"No!" Edward says, and there's something in his voice that makes it hard for Haytham to leave. "Wait!"

It's hard to leave, but Haytham does anyway, ignoring the voice in the back of his head that tells him he's making a mistake. Outside the cafeteria, he leans against the wall and closes his eyes, breathing deeply.

He doesn't even bother trying to deny what he just saw (and heard and smelled and _felt_). He's spent the last few days learning everything he can about the Phoenix Project, trying to more fully understand what's happened to Connor, and the history lesson from Vidic is the last piece of confirmation he needs.

What he just saw is definitely a genetic memory. Why it triggered like that, out of nowhere, not even through a dream, is the question. He's never heard of a memory triggering out of the blue like that. It's… probably not a good sign, and Haytham doesn't think it's too much of a leap to assume the memories will only become stronger as time goes on.

The only question is how much stronger, and if he'll be able to resist them.


	17. Seas and Skies 2

After Haytham's abrupt exit, Desmond, Altair, and Edward sit together in shared silence for a long time. Finally, Edward says, "Well, that went horribly wrong."

"What did you say?" Altair asks.

"Nothing!" Edward says. "We got as far as my name, then he just zoned out and ran for it." He tries not to show how much that bothers him, and luckily the other two don't seem to pick up on it.

"You must have said something," Altair presses.

"I literally just told him my name," Edward insists, a little annoyed that he's not taking his word for it. "And for some reason that just freaked him out."

"Well, maybe it was something else," Desmond says. "Maybe he just had to be somewhere." But he doesn't sound like he believes that, any more than the other two do.

"Alright," Altair sighs. "Well, the whole point of talking to him was to see if we could learn anything about Connor, but if he isn't going to talk to you at all, we'll have to try something else."

"Do you think he remembers anything?" Desmond asks, abruptly. "Haytham, I mean." Edward glances at Altair, who seems to be giving the idea some serious thought.

"It's possible," he says, after a while. "But we can't know for sure unless he decides to talk to us. I don't think that's likely to happen."

"Right," Edward says, because he doesn't want to talk about Haytham right now. "How do we get to Connor?"

Desmond sighs and leans back in his chair, rubbing at his eyes. "There's no good way in," he says. "The room has no windows and one door, and Vidic's got his people in the hall outside all the time. There's no way to get to Connor without them seeing us, and we can't get rid of them without being completely conspicuous. It would probably get violent, and since half of them are disguised as doctors, it wouldn't go over well."

"What if we set off the fire alarm?" Altair asks. "They'd have to evacuate."

"I don't like the idea of setting a fire in a hospital," Desmond says.

"We don't have to actually set anything on fire," Altair says. "Just pull the alarm."

"They'll see through that right away," Desmond says. "Or Vidic will, anyway. We won't have enough time to get Connor out, especially if he's still injured."

"Alright," says Edward. "Not a fire, then. A different kind of emergency." He leans forward slightly, to keep anyone in the still crowded room from overhearing. "So Vidic's a templar, right?"

"Yea," Desmond says.

"So the one emergency he'll actually react to is an assassin showing up," Edward says. "One of us goes in there, scares him a little, he calls in his backup. They come running up from Connor's room, the other two go in and get him. It's the only way."

"That's… actually good," Altair says.

"You don't have to sound surprised," Edward says.

"Well, I am surprised." He turns to Desmond. "Do you want to go for it?"

"As long as I get to be the one to mess with Vidic," Desmond says.

"Then we'll go after Connor," Edward says. "And get him out. When do we do it?"

"Why not now?" Desmond asks, and Edward nods. The sooner the better, in his opinion.

"Not now," Altair says firmly. "Edward, Haytham saw you here today. If we make a move, he'll know it was us."

"Fine," Edward says. "Tomorrow." He doesn't like the idea of waiting around and doing nothing in any case, but this time, the reason he doesn't want to wait is more complicated than simple impatience. Connor's his family too, even though they've never met.

"Tomorrow," Altair agrees. "Be here at noon."

-/-

There's nothing Mary hates as much as flying commercially, but for getting quickly from Alaska to New York, there's no other choice. And it's not the flight itself that's the problem, it really isn't, because there's nothing better than flying. It's freedom, in a way nothing else in the world is or can be. And yes, it's better to do the flying herself, but there's a question of good and better, not good and bad.

The problem is on either end of the flight- or in this case, just the second end. The airport in Anchorage quiet and uncrowded on a weekday morning, but when the flight touches down in New York, it's utter chaos. Businessmen in dark suits, families with squalling children, and drunk undergrads headed to Florida for spring break move around one another without seeing each other, talking on cell phones, dragging suitcases large enough to hold most of what Mary owns.

She does her best to move around the crowds, but there's only so much she can do. Halfway between the plane and the street outside where she's planning to catch a taxi, two teenargers come tearing down the moving walkway, running as fast as they can in the wrong direction, just because they can. They collide with Mary at the end, and all three of them go down in a tangle of arms and legs and bags.

"Sorry!"

The older teen, a boy, maybe seventeen or eighteen, jumps to his feet, laughter in every line of his face. "My bad, definitely my bad."

"Well, yea." Mary tries to frown, but she's not really hurt, and the kid looks like the type that won't take a scolding seriously, anyway. "You alright?"

"Fine," says the other teen. She's younger, probably three or four years younger, and looks like she could be the boy's sister. Unlike her brother, she looks a little embarrassed. They gather bags and belongings, and once everyone has their things, the girl pulls at her brother's arm. "Come on, Ezio. Dad's waiting at the bag check, remember?"

"Yea." The boy- Ezio- offers Mary one last, laughing smile, before running off with his sister. Mary watches them until they're out of sight, but this time, neither of them runs into anyone. Shaking her head a little, Mary goes her own way, glancing down at the faint circinus on her wrist. Time to track down Edward, and see what kind of trouble he's been getting himself into.

**-/-**

**Mary is shockingly difficult to write. That is all.**


End file.
